


these are the times we'll remember

by kenwayyed (stray_magister)



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-12 06:18:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 49,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3346673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stray_magister/pseuds/kenwayyed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One morning, upon waking in the humid, scented air of Damascus, still unsure of Jenny’s precise location and long before the loss of Holden, he notices a mark on his wrist.</p>
<p>At first he dismisses it as a smudge of dirt (God knows how long it’s been since he’s had a chance to bathe properly) and rubs at it, but then he realises it isn’t just a random smudge, but actual letters, and everything stops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a birthday gift intended for moonsickpierrot on tumblr, but then I put it off. For like a year. Er. I'll actually try to finish it this year.
> 
> Anywho, consider this a rewrite of ACIII with a little bit added in between and at the end. If you recognise some (a lot) of the dialogue, that's because I blatantly stole it from either game or novel. One day I will be creative. One day.
> 
> You have no idea how ridiculously nervous I am posting this. I've written fanfic before, but it's never gone beyond my computer files and moonsickpierrot's eyes. Also, this hasn't been proofread properly, so if you spot any mistakes, please point them out!
> 
> The title is borrowed from Our Time Now by the Plain White T's.
> 
> Enjoy reading!

When he was still young enough not to understand, Haytham used to trace his father’s name on his mother’s wrist when she came to kiss him good night. He liked the slightly jagged lines, though they ill fit the graceful nature of his mother, because they somehow managed to capture the exact essence of his father: strong, though slightly unrefined, but always present. He had never seen his mother’s name on his father’s wrist, but he imagined her name would be graceful, curvy, like his mother’s handwriting.

When he first noticed his father’s name, he was six and naturally inquisitive, so of course he had asked Mother why her wrist read ‘Edward’, and why Jenny had a name on her wrist. Mother explained that the name stood for the person you were destined to be with, the one who was destined to make you happy. The name stood for the person you were to spend the rest of your life with.

Haytham looked at his own wrist, rubbed at the unmarked skin with his thumb. “I don’t have one,” he said, and frowned, because it didn’t make sense that he had none when everyone else he knew did – even the maids, he saw when they had rolled up their sleeves to do the washing or cooking, had names. Haytham thought about this, then said, “I will get mine when I get older, won’t I, Mother?” That could be the only possible explanation. He wasn’t yet old enough, just as he wasn’t yet old enough to train with blades of steel instead of wood.

Mother smiled and brushed his hair aside. “Of course, sweetheart.”

He was too young to realise Mother could lie.

 

*          *          *

 

He had always believed it was his age; that the name of his soul mate would appear once he was old enough, old enough to understand the concept of being with someone for the rest of his life. But the beggar children in the street, if their clothes ill fit them and they had no food to gain strength from, they had names on their wrists.

It wasn’t his age. It was just him.

“Mother,” he had asked her once night, softly, so that Father—who always seemed to hear everything, every word he spoke out of turn—and Jenny wouldn’t overhear. “Why don’t I have a name?”

At nine years old, he still waited patiently for Mother to tuck him in. He really was getting too old for this; next week, once he’d turned ten, he would stop. He would walk to the parlour and kiss Mother good night there, just like he bade Father good night there already. Next week. For now, though, he was still nine, and Mother could still tuck him in. And he could ask her.

Mother stopped moving for a moment, gaze trained on the bedspread she was righting, before she smiled a smile that Haytham had come to recognise as artificial and patted his knee.

“What’s this now? You’ll get one when you’re older. Give it time, Haytham. I swear, you’ve inherited your father’s lack of patience—”

“Mother, you don’t have to lie to me to spare my feelings,” Haytham interrupted her, and only felt slightly guilty as her hand twitched against his knee. He had never interrupted her before. But he wanted answers, an explanation, no fabrications. She had to understand.

Mother was quiet for a long while before she reached over and caressed his hair, her face drawn into apologetic sadness. “I don’t know, darling,” she said softly. “I’m sorry.” She leaned over and kissed his forehead. “It doesn’t mean you won’t be happy.” She straightened; this time, her smile was more genuine, though small and tinged with sadness and worry. “Try not to worry about it. Someone will be out there for you.” She kissed his forehead again and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Despite her attempts at reassurance, Haytham lay in the darkness of his room for a long while, pressing his thumb into his wrist as if he could magically make a name appear. It didn’t work, of course; he could feel nothing, not the strange awareness of another’s existence that his mother had hinted at on occasion, not the safety of the knowledge that someone was waiting for him to find them. All he felt was his own presence, and the insetting chill of the winter night.

Resolutely, he turned onto his side and forced his eyes closed. He wouldn’t think about it. Rather think about his birthday. At ten, surely Father would let him train with the sword he had been gifted two years prior. Surely he would be old enough then. Think of that rather than the lack of a name.

His sleep was troubled, but at least he slept.

A week later, Father would be dead.

 

*          *          *

 

As he grew older, after Father was killed and Mother pulled away from him, he resigned to the fact that he would never have a soul mate, as he’d heard them be called. It was easier than he had expected, to accept that fact – love seemed of secondary importance compared to finding the man responsible for his Father’s murder, for Jenny’s disappearance. Of secondary importance, even, to the assignments Reginald sent him on. Of secondary importance to humouring Reginald in his frankly preposterous belief in Those Who Came Before, his ancient civilisation that would somehow hold the answers to all of their problems.

Nevertheless, he took great care to hide his wrist from public view; though it was unlikely, his enemies could consider the lack of a name a potential weakness to exploit, and he was unsure as of yet how he felt about the matter. So he wore long sleeves with a heavy coat that would be more difficult to dislodge, tied the string at the cuff of his nightshirt tighter than strictly necessary, so that it couldn’t shift past the protruding bone on the outside of his wrist. He had considered his insistence on keeping his wrist clothed would ultimately only serve to draw attention to it, and planned to react accordingly should it prove to be so, but no such thing had happened; it seemed almost common custom, within their Order, to keep the name on one’s wrist hidden from prying eyes. Haytham was no different from the next Templar.

After several months, never showing his wrist even in the direst of heat became automatism, and he almost forgot about its significance in favour of following Digweed’s trail to the Black Forest, of rooting out the mercenaries who had cost his father his life. After that, it was Braddock and his siege of Bergen op Zoom that kept his attention away from the lack of a name, Braddock with his slaughtering of innocents and the resulting anger that preoccupied most of his thoughts. Even later still, the trip to Boston, the passage over the Atlantic, surviving the Assassins’ attempt on his life (rather foolish as it was). Meeting Charles; gathering his allies. His mind was on Reginald’s precursor site and the establishment of the Colonial branch of the Order. Even people in the colonies needed guidance, after all.

His mind hadn’t properly been on the lack of a soul mate for months, if not years.

And then there was Ziio.

 

*          *          *

 

Meeting Ziio made him regret, for a moment, that his wrist was unmarked, because how wonderful would it have been if this wild creature, this warrior goddess sent to his side, would be the one meant for him. Soon after the thought had struck, however, it ceased to matter, because regardless of the fact if she was meant for him or not, she chose him anyway.

He learned quickly (if months after first meeting her could be termed quickly) that he would not have to consider the name on her wrist a threat; the man it belonged to was long dead, killed in one of the raids to defend her village. Like him, she had no one. It made their coming together so much more easy.

She saw his wrist, of course, but to her credit, she merely glanced at it and brushed her fingertips over it as if in thought before disregarding it. In return, he never mentioned the name on her wrist and didn’t focus any special attention on it when he touched her. After learning the fate of her soul mate, it ceased to matter anyway.

For almost four weeks, hidden away in the woods, he believed he could be perfectly happy without a soul mate waiting for him, just as his mother had promised him.

But then came Charles, bearing Holden’s letter and the news that Braddock had finally died of his injuries. Of course he hadn’t particularly lowered his voice. And of course Ziio had heard.

He only realised in hindsight he should have waited for Braddock to die of his injuries before claiming his reward in their deal, instead of growing impatient and rushing matters.

He really only had himself to blame.

 

*          *          *

 

If he dared to be honest with himself, he thought Ziio’s angry dismissal might have hurt more than the realisation that he was not meant to be with her. He had thought he could make it work, whatever it was they had, after all. Did he love her? Perhaps. He didn’t know what it's supposed to feel like. Whatever it was he felt for Ziio was wasn’t the earth-shattering love and devotion his mother had felt for his father, from what he had heard her tell, but it was affection, surely, perhaps love in its own way. He would have been happy with her, no doubt, difficult as it would have been to balance his duties as Grandmaster and spending time with her.

What would she have done, if she had realised the full implications of what he was? Had Braddock died by his blade immediately, or had he been honest about his survival to Ziio, would she still have sent him away if she had known what the Order worked for? Would she have agreed, or at least tried to understand?

It was foolish to speculate. It wouldn’t change the past. At any rate, his mind should be on Jenny, now. He owed her his undivided attention, after leaving her to her fate for two decades.

He hid his wrist beneath his bracer and Ziio in a dark corner of his mind. Soon, neither she nor the nameless gap in his life seemed to matter anymore.

 

*          *          *

 

One morning, upon waking in the humid, scented air of Damascus, still unsure of Jenny’s precise location and long before the loss of Holden, he notices a mark on his wrist.

At first he dismisses it as a smudge of dirt (God knows how long it’s been since he’s had a chance to bathe properly) and rubs at it, but then he realises it isn’t just a random smudge, but actual letters, and everything stops.

When he was younger, he used to imagine what it would feel like if a name suddenly appeared. What he would do. In his young, idealistic mind, he would look for her, no matter how far he would have to travel. As he grew older, tasted of the difficulty of tracking someone when you only knew their name, he dismissed the possibility of tracking her down, even if her name appeared. Even later still, he finally disregarded the possibility of a name appearing altogether.

But this. This name he can’t possibly learn to pronounce, this name, he can pinpoint. He doesn’t know the exact location of the village (Ziio remained loyal to her people, never revealed its whereabouts to him) but he knows he can find out if he presses William for it. But his mind draws a blank when he attempts to decide whether he should. For all the plans he made in his youth, adapted in his adolescence, and discarded in adulthood, he has no idea how to proceed from here.

“Sir?” Holden’s voice breaks through his thoughts. His face is drawn into the onset of worry when Haytham pries his eyes away from the name on his wrist to look at him. “Are you alright?”

“Yes. Fine.” Haytham gets up, hides his wrist beneath the bracer of his hidden blade and dusts sand off his clothes. “Do you know where she is, then?”

Holden seems to waver between answering his question and pressing for an answer to ease his worries, but eventually seems to decide to let the matter rest for a later time, and tells him where they need to be.

Even as Haytham follows Holden towards the Qasr al-Azm, the name keeps appearing before his mind’s eye as if he’s still looking at it.

_Ratonhnhaké:ton._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a brief note for those of you expecting Shay - since I started writing this about a year ago, when Rogue wasn't even in the picture yet, there will be no mention of the events and characters in Rogue. I'm following ACIII's/Forsaken's timeline. Sorry to disappoint!
> 
> On another note, I'm still finishing this up. I have about two more chapters to go, but those who know me know I always have a hard time finishing anything I start. I can only promise I'll do my utmost to actually finish something I started this time!
> 
> Let me know what you think! :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am seriously so humbled by all of your kudos, comments and subscriptions. You guys made my weekend. Thank you so much for reading, I appreciate every single one of you! <3
> 
> This one hasn't been beta-read by anyone other than me, so if you see any glaring mistakes, please do point them out!

The name on Ratonhnhaké:ton’s wrist is a strange one.

At four, he understands the concept of life mates and their names; he does not understand why his name does not resemble the names from his village or other Kanien’kéha tribes nearby. All the other children have Kanien’kéha names; even Mother has one, though he understands quickly that her life mate is not within her reach. It is just his name that is different.

Some weeks ago, he overheard some of the men talking about the white men inching closer and closer to their village; heard the names they mentioned, and knew, knew his life mate was one of the white men. And while he hasn’t been taught that the white men are evil, he has been taught to be wary of them. He does not know how it can be possible, that his life mate is someone outside their village. He does not understand.

Mother refuses, like she refuses to talk about his father and why he is not with them, to talk about the name on his wrist, refuses to even look at it. She merely tells him not to show the name to anyone. That is not so unusual; most in the village choose to hide their name, because the name is an intimate connection with another person, not meant to be shared with any other. It would not be strange if he hid his wrist from view, too, but Mother’s insistence that he do so _is_ strange.

“But—” he tries.

“Ratonhnhaké:ton. Please.”

Ratonhnhaké:ton drops the argument, because there is no convincing Mother, he knows. He leaves the longhouse and takes one of the village’s dogs with him to the water’s edge and sits there, skipping stones into the water. When Kanen’to:kon approaches him there, he sends the dog home and follows the other children into the woods for hide and seek.

His wrist is still dutifully hidden when he comes home several hours later, and Mother hands him a bowl of food. He eats it in silence and wishes Mother good night once he is done.

He does not bring up his life mate again.

 

*          *          *

 

Charles Lee’s hands around his throat. Smoke everywhere. Can’t breathe. Mother is trapped. Not strong enough. Hands drag him away. Has to save Mother. Can’t let her die. Struggles. Hands hold on tight. House collapses. Screams.

Mother is gone.

He is alone.

 

*          *          *

 

Years later, before he leaves in search of the seal, he asks Oiá:ner about his father. While she can tell him nothing concrete, nothing of who he is, nothing of how he and Mother came to meet, nothing of the reason why he left Mother, she gives him a name. For a moment, he thinks he has misheard, but the name repeats itself in his mind and he knows he heard her perfectly fine. If she notices any signs of distress on his face, she says nothing, merely hands him his sleeping mat and leaves.

Ratonhnhaké:ton remains by the waterside. He removes the band he has wrapped around his left wrist and stares at the name, hears it echo in his mind, both in Oiá:ner’s voice and a strange mental one he has always associated with his life mate. _Haytham_. His life mate’s name is Haytham. His father’s name is Haytham Kenway.

This is why Mother refused to talk about his life mate. She had known the name, had known what it meant that her son carried it on his wrist, had known what it would mean if Ratonhnhaké:ton should ever come face to face with him. She had never talked about his father, had never mentioned his name, so he would never learn they are the same person. She had known, had realised it is unnatural, and had wanted to protect him. She had thought he would never know. And now he does, and he feels like he should throw up.

It takes him a long time to be able to get up. Even when he does, he still wavers, for a moment. His father’s name almost seems to burn on his wrist. He forces it to the back of his mind and starts his trek, but now that he knows, now that he has an idea of who his life mate is, he cannot suppress an awareness of being, an awareness that his life mate— _father_ , his father—is on the same shores, not halfway around the world. He is within reach. Ratonhnhaké:ton could look for him and find him.

He bites down on the urge. He continues his journey east.

 

*          *          *

 

As soon as he reaches the manor of the man who is supposed to aid him, train him, his father momentarily slips into the back of his mind in favour of convincing the old man to at least hear him out. Even during the times where he is not banging on the door and takes shelter in the stables against the rain, he neglects to look at the name on his wrist, instead staring up at the ceiling and trying to think of a way to prove he is committed, trying to find a way to get through to the old man.

Then there are the mercenaries on the property. There is the rush of adrenaline as he fights them off— _they cannot reach the manor, they cannot take away his chance_ —and a little while later, the even greater surge of relief when the old man tells him to clean away the corpses and come up to the house—he will speak to him.

The talk distracts him. The promise of becoming better, of becoming a man who can seek out Charles Lee and avenge his mother, distracts him. The robes in the basement hold his attention. Imagining how they would look on him diverts his attention.

He has almost forgotten by the time Achilles shows him a wall adorned with the portraits of six men. The central core of the Templar Order. All of them would be his enemies if he lets Achilles train him—and since he needs the old man to train him, he will accept them as such. He studies the portraits carefully, getting familiar with the men, memorises their names. Johnson, Pitcairn, Hickey, Church. Lee, he has no need to familiarise himself with. He would know the man anywhere.

His eyes move upward, to the uppermost portrait, and land on the name, and his world feels off-kilter once again.

The uppermost portrait reads ‘Haytham’.

His father is the Templar Grandmaster. His father, his life mate, is one of his enemies. In league with Lee. His father, life mate, is one of the men he will have to kill.

He chances a look at Achilles. “What do the Templars want?” He needs to know. Needs to understand. Needs to justify the sacrifices he will make.

“What they’ve always wanted: control.” Achilles voice is one of a lifetime of disappointments, a lifetime of futile struggle, of frustrations over his failings. “They see an opportunity in the colonies, a chance for new beginnings, unfettered by the chaos of the past. This is why they back the British. Here they have a chance to illustrate the merits of their beliefs: a people in service to the principles of order and structure.”

This order and structure, the supremacy of the white man, is what burned his village. What killed Mother. What would make the world burn if the Templars were to have their way. His people would not survive. His village would not survive. And his father would have a hand in it.

Ratonhnhaké:ton sets his jaw. “They have to die, don’t they? All of them.” He looks up at Haytham’s portrait and swallows down an unpleasant feeling, one of regret. “Even my father.” His wrist burns as if in answer, as if it disagrees with him and punishes him for his fault of thinking ill of his life mate. He presses a thumb against the name and wills the burn away.

 

*          *          *

 

For a long time after, he wonders if it is possible for someone to hate their life mate. He recognises the burn inside of him when he thinks of Lee, of how long he must still wait, and knows it to be hate. When he thinks of his father, he feels anger, anger for his alignment with a monster such as Lee, anger for his alignment with the Templars, but not the same burning hatred he feels for Lee. When he thinks of his father, there is a tinge of regret, regret for the man he will never know, for the life he will never have. He does not hate his father, no matter how much he tries to, tries to enlarge his faults, so that killing him will be easier. It is no use. All he feels is anger and regret, and a strange sort of longing he does not like.

To stop his thoughts, he throws himself into his training the way he has rarely thrown himself into anything else. As a result, he grows quicker, stronger. He is filling out, though not as much as he would like. Achilles offers no verbal praise at his progress, but Ratonhnhaké:ton likes to think he can see a shimmer of approval in the old man’s eyes.

Still, at the end of the day, it changes nothing. His eyes are still drawn to his father’s name when he lies down in bed each night, and there is still the unpleasant taste of regret on the back of his tongue. No matter how hard he trains and how much he tires himself, he cannot stop that.

He wishes it were possible for someone to hate their life mate. It would make his life so much easier.

 

*          *          *

 

He is fourteen when he first sees his father in the flesh. He has just gotten a new name and is still trying it in his head and mouth, so that he will not sound unpractised when asked, when he becomes aware of a changing atmosphere around him, one of suppressed excitement, like a kettle waiting to boil over. The closer the gets to the Town House, the greater the throng of people he has to weave through grows. He can sense it as clearly as if it were announced, somewhere—something is about to happen.

He needs to find Achilles.

Together, they move closer to the Town House, where the steady buzz of hushed conversation makes way for shouting. At first, Connor is distracted by the anger of the people, and is actively listening to what they have to say, but then Achilles touches his shoulder and points his cane. “There.” Connor follows the direction of his cane, and there he is.

The first thing that Connor can think of is that Haytham’s portrait does not do him justice. He is far greater in person than in paint, with a strong jaw and keen eyes. They do not seek him out, do not even rest on him, for which Connor is grateful; he is not sure what he would do under the full weight of their gaze. Even now, when Haytham is looking away from him, he can only barely resist the urge to step forward, make himself known. There is a strange tugging at his chest he cannot understand, almost like a pull, urging him closer to his life mate. His wrist does not burn, but the pull is bad enough as it is.

He swallows. “Is that… my father?”

“Yes. Which means trouble is sure to follow.” Achilles nods at a man next to Haytham, one Connor did not even notice, distracted as he was by his father’s presence. “I need you to tail his accomplice. This crowd is a powder keg – we can’t allow him to light the fuse.”

Connor’s stomach and chest twist uncomfortably at the prospect of losing sight of his father. “But—” he tries, looks back at Haytham, flexes his hand. He is so close.

“But nothing!” Achilles jabs at his arm. “Do as I say and go.”

Connor looks back at Haytham, who has moved to the other side of the building to speak quietly with one of the redcoats, and then tears himself away and sets off after his father’s accomplice. He tails him to one of the rooftops, sees him take aim at the mass of people below. For the split of a second, he remembers his training, remembers he needs to aim for stealth, but he has no time—if he tries to do it quietly, civilians will die. So he throws himself onto the gunman, embeds his tomahawk into the man’s neck. He holds him by the collar. “Your scheme has ended.”

The man grins, looks to the side. “Not quite.”

Across the way, a figure shifts, pulls out a gun. Charles Lee. Connor judges the distance, whether he can make the jump, but the square is too wide, and by the time he thinks to take his bow and aim, Lee has already fired the shot.

Panic commences. The redcoats, assuming the shot came from the masses (or having been told so), take up their rifles. Connor watches in helpless dismay, drops the gunman to the roof. He has failed.

Down below, Haytham moves, alerts a grenadier, points to the roof, at Connor.

Connor has two seconds to revel in the fact that Haytham has noticed him before the soldiers take aim at him, and he can only just retrieve his tomahawk from the gunman’s shoulder before he has to dart out of the way of bullets. He pushes himself, jumps from one roof to another to stay out of range, looking all the while for a place to hide. A hay cart springs into view; he drops from the roof into it, and keeps still. After a while, the sound of the soldiers looking for him fades into the distance and then vanishes altogether.

He climbs out of the hay cart and dusts off his clothes, then sets off. He is in a part of the city he has not been before, but he has no way to orient himself without making himself known. He will have to avoid the main streets, slink down the small side streets to find his way. His training has improved his stamina, but his legs feel heavy, and he would rather not have to run again.

As he walks the back alleys of Boston, looking for... Achilles or Haytham, at this point he is not sure which, a man approaches him, tells him to meet with Samuel Adams. The man shows up a civilian on his Vision; even though he is wary, Connor nods his thanks, and sets off to meet this Samuel Adams. Should he prove an enemy, there will still be time to run and hide.

But Adams proves to be of aid, and some hours later, Connor finds himself on a ship to the homestead.

Back at the homestead, safe and sound but for a few scrapes, he traces the lines of his father’s name, mouths it silently, tries to ignore the pull in his chest that calls him back to Boston. If he was conflicted about his father before, he is doubly so now, now that he has seen him, felt his presence. He has seen his father’s face, watched it move with the minutest of expressions, has felt the danger lurking beneath his gentleman facade; he has seen his hands, has wondered what it would be like to be touched by them.

Resolutely, he shoves his wrist under his pillow and turns onto his side. Haytham may be his father, may be his life mate, but he is the Templar Grandmaster first and foremost. He is the enemy.

He is the enemy. He is the enemy. He is the enemy.

It fails to add up.

 

*          *          *

 

It is six years before he sees his father again.

There was something almost cathartic about picking off Johnson and Pitcairn, of finally starting his quest towards Lee. With Hickey, there is no such feeling, only the heart-pounding surety that he _cannot_ fail, that he must succeed to keep Washington alive.

As with everything he tries too hard for, his eager backfires. There is no way he can explain he is not involved with Hickey’s counterfeiting business; who would take the word of a native? All he earns with his contradiction is a rifle butt to his temple.

When he wakes, it is in a damp room with a shoddy mattress and Thomas Hickey’s voice taunting him from the other cell. “You miss me, sweet’eart?”

Connor reconsiders. Perhaps killing Hickey will be _very_ cathartic after this.

The thought only lasts for a moment, dissipated by the sound of a door opening to his right. He is on immediate alert, inching closer to the cell door to get a look at Hickey’s allies. He sets his jaw at the sight of Lee, contemplates the odds of being able to kill him quickly enough through the bars. This thought is fleeting, too, his mind distracted by the flutter of a dark blue cloak. The pull in his chest that had dulled over the course of six years now spikes as sharply as it did in Boston. His hand moves of its own accord, curls on one of the bars, ready to reach out if it gets the opportunity.

Haytham has not noticed him yet, focused as he is on whatever it is that Hickey has to say. Connor does not hear; Haytham’s presence takes away his focus. Still, Hickey must have referred to him, because Haytham suddenly turns to face him, gaze calculating as it lands on him.

(He was right, six years ago; Haytham’s gaze is almost stifling, heavier than the weight of the Assassin robes, the weight of Achilles’ expectation.)

He sees a moment of recognition cross Haytham’s face, and finds himself holding his breath. Would Haytham recognise him here, feel the same pull in his chest, or does it not work like that with white men? But surely, the principles of a life mate are the same everywhere? Haytham must recognise him. Dismiss Lee and Hickey and speak to him alone. Not release him, not directly, that would reflect badly on him, but perhaps later.

But the moment passes, and Haytham looks towards Lee. “Deal with this, Charles,” he says, and Connor only realises he has leaned forward against the bars, pulled forward by the voice of his life mate, when Haytham leaves the hallway and Lee stops before his cell, addressing him. Connor looks at him without responding, as if his stare can make Lee drop dead at his feet. It cannot quite do that, of course, but it at least makes him leave. And Connor feels secure in the knowledge that he cannot take Hickey with him, that Washington will be safe for a little while longer. He has time.

He feels less secure about his footing with Haytham.

Slowly, he lets go of the bars and backs further into his cell. If Haytham recognised him, he has greater control over himself than Connor. Aside from the brief flicker of _something_ , he showed no emotion towards Connor, no twitch of his hand to show he felt a similar urge to reach out. However strong the pull in Connor’s chest is, Haytham showed no signs of it. All Connor got was a cold stare, aloofness, distance.

But there has to be something. He cannot be the only one. Haytham must have hid it well. There cannot be _nothing_. If they were to meet again, perhaps then—

Perhaps he is wasting his time. But he has to try.

For now, he lies down on the mattress, thinks of a means of escape. He has to get to Hickey. Washington must be safe. This nation’s freedom depends on him. After, after Hickey is gone and the threat removed, he can think about his father.

The next morning, he is ready to put his plans into motion. He does not get the chance. He is dragged from his cell and put into a slaver’s cart, driven off to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you wondering when I'll update, I've decided on one chapter every two or three days for now. I'm working on the last chapter(s) now, which I'm hoping to finish sometime early this week, so I should have plenty of material not to have to put it on hold. So expect another chapter on Wednesday/Thursday!
> 
> (Also, I have no idea why it repeated the author's note of the previous chapter. If anyone can tell me how to shut that off, please let me know!)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are amazing <3 Every single notification makes me so giddy, you wouldn't even believe. So thank you guys <3
> 
> Once again, please point out any mistakes, I'm still short on a beta, yadda yadda yadda.
> 
> Also, on a very positive note for those of you who don't look at my tumblr, I finished this fic two days ago! I'll be updating every other day from now on, so look forward to this baby actually having a proper conclusion, haha
> 
> Enjoy!

Thomas has always been somewhat of a loose cannon, but Haytham has to admit he had hoped for a little more caution. To learn, therefore, that Thomas had somehow managed to get himself incarcerated in Bridewell was the last blow to his already fraying nerves. After Church’s desertion and William and John’s assassinations, one of the last vestiges of hope for actual progress lies in the untimely demise of Washington. The Order needs a man in charge who is not only capable, but also sympathetic to their cause, one who can ensure change, win the battle, cast out the British, ensure and maintain control, strengthen the position of the Order. Washington is neither capable nor a Templar, so he has to be replaced by Charles, which would only be possible if Washington were to die. This is what Thomas should have been responsible for. In an ideal world, it now seems.

When Haytham arrives at Bridewell to see to Thomas’ better accommodations and work on his eventual release, he is decidedly not in a good mood—even more so because he has been feeling uneasy ever since setting off from Fort George. It’s as if something has settled in his stomach, something he would call nerves but for the fact that he can’t think of a reason why he would be nervous. He is at once dreading going to Bridewell and eager to get there, which is a paradox he cannot understand. He hates uncertainty.

Because of this, he can’t be entirely blamed for feeling so _angry_ with Thomas once he sees him, honestly. On any other day, he would have sighed and waved it off with the calm though urgent advice to be careful. At this moment, however, because of this being the umpteenth setback, because of the oppressing atmosphere of Bridewell, because his body is thrumming with expectation, settled low in his back, he has little patience. So instead of giving Thomas the look of a condescending parent, as per usual, because Thomas is the youngest of them all, he snaps, “There can be no further mistakes, Thomas. Am I understood?”

He isn’t exactly sure whether he is pleased or irritated that Thomas doesn’t seem to take offence, though at least the idiot has the sense not to defend his actions and keep quiet. Haytham throws him a last look and turns around to leave, trusting Charles to take care of business, but then Thomas stops him, “Wha’ about the Assassin?”

Haytham turns around and looks at him, the onset of a frown on his face. He has considered the possibility, of course, after William and John, but as far as his sources can tell him, there is no well-organised Brotherhood in this part of the colonies. Any Assassin operating against their Order—and it would have to be an Assassin, why else would two of his comrades lie dead?—would work independently, which is a hassle, of course, but nothing that could not be handled. There were rumours about Achilles Davenport taking on a disciple, training him to be like him, but Davenport was old and lame, and Haytham had dismissed the possibility until after John’s death. Ever since, he had conceded that there may be some truth in the story, after all. By all means, this shouldn’t be a shock; still, to have Thomas mention it when he hasn’t been told, to be presented confirmation, makes him pause and set his jaw. It means he failed, decades ago.

Thomas is grinning, as if he’s proud of being the one to present the information. “Yeah. ‘E’s ‘ere. They put ‘im in the cell next to mine. Guess we didn’t get ‘em all, eh?” Haytham doesn’t respond; instead, he turns to face the cell, to look at the Assassin, learn what kind of man he is, the one who cut down almost half of his inner circle.

When his eyes land on the boy, everything seems to stop.

The Assassin is a young man, not yet twenty-five by the looks of him. He has Native blood in him, but not solely; his skin is lighter than Ziio’s was. His eyes are dark and fierce, looking at him, though a part of Haytham is sure the fierceness is not directed at him per say. The set of his mouth is firm and proud, if a bit uncertain, as if he’s trying to appear more unaffected than he truly is. It is the first time he sees the boy face to face, but he recognises every one of his features.

His mother’s eyes. The set of her chin, unmoveable.

And his father’s nose and mouth.

His son.

He remembers a time several years ago, now known as the Boston Massacre. Their aim had been to stir up the masses, create enough of a tragedy to add fuel to the fire of their resistance. Before the actual chaos started, the gunman responsible for the shot that was supposed to set off the masses was killed by a boy. Luckily, they had thought of a contingency plan long beforehand, just to be sure (Haytham is nothing if not meticulous, after all) and Charles was there to fire the shot.

At the time, he had indicated the boy to be dealt with; he hadn’t paid close attention to his features then, and now realises that he, perhaps, should have. Would that have changed things? Would he have been able to seek the boy out and talk him to their side? Would William and John still be alive, their plans so much closer to completion?

The Assassin shifts minutely, drawing Haytham from his reverie. The boy’s hand is curled lightly around one of the bars, looking for all the world as if it’s simply casually resting there, but Haytham has no doubt he could be moved into action in the split of a second if it proved necessary.

The longer he looks at the boy, the more unpleasant the feeling in his lower back grows. He has a strange urge to step forward and reach out that he attributes to misplaced paternal sentiments. To stifle it, he clenches and unclenches his hand several times, then finally tears his eyes away from the boy. The uncomfortable feeling remains, though lessened slightly by the lack of eye-contact. Haytham still can’t understand why.

He forces the question away in favour of contemplating more practical matters, such as what to do with the boy—Assassin—in the cell. He doesn’t need to look at either Thomas or Charles to know that both are waiting for his word. He thinks. Makes a decision.

If his son is an Assassin, then, blood ties or not, he has to be neutralised. In any way possible.

He turns away from the cell to look at Charles and tell him to take care of it. He leaves Bridewell and gets into the carriage that will bring him back to his quarters at Fort George.

He expects the unsettling feeling to pass once he is outside and far away from that wretched excuse of a prison; it doesn’t.

 

*          *          *

 

Upon waking the following morning, he realises he’s restless in addition to his lingering unease. At first, he resolves to ignore it and get to work, but as the morning progresses, a sense of dread descends over his already sour mood, and he loses focus of the letters he is supposed to be answering. With a sigh, he rubs his temples and gets up. He walks to the window with the intention of getting some fresh air, in the hopes that he can find his concentration afterwards, but as he looks out over New York, he’s hit at once by the cause for his unrest.

From his lodgings, he’s not able to see Bridewell or the square where the hanging will take place, but Fort George is remarkably quieter than usual, as most of the troops and Templar agents stationed there are in attendance to make sure there are no further setbacks—Charles’ suggestion; aside from giving his assent with a distracted gesture, Haytham had stayed far from the particulars of the Assassin’s speedy execution.

The more he thinks about the hanging, the more something heavy settles in his stomach. It feels like regret, but that would be preposterous; he agreed to having the boy executed before he could do any more damage, and he was so sure of himself when he left Bridewell yesterday. The boy is an Assassin, and so has to die.

But the boy is also his son.

He signed his son’s death warrant.

He sets his jaw and clenches and unclenches his fist, then, with an oath, turns away from the window to exchange his regular coat, cape, and hat for a dark cloak with a hood that sinks down deep over his forehead, shrouding his face in shadow. He hooks his sword belt around his hips and stuffs a couple of throwing knives into one of the pouches, puts his gun in its holster, and finally secures the bracers of his hidden blades around his wrists. As he leaves and makes his way to the stables, he’s aware of the looks he attracts, and is at once glad that he at least left his house keeper in Virginia instead of taking her with him to New York, like she had initially wanted him to. Looks he can abide, but her questions would have been harder to avoid.

His horse is a stubborn piece of work that refuses to budge until he pulls hard on the reins and smacks it on the rear, but once he’s mounted it, it moves like a dream and carries him to the square faster than he could have hoped for. He ties it to a tree in a nearby alleyway and uses the crowd to blend in, slowly but steadily moving closer.

He recognises Charles by the gallows and keeps his head low; after giving his assent only the night before, he would have a lot of explaining to do if he were to be seen, especially now that he’s moving around like a criminal himself. From the corners of his vision, he spots his son and Thomas, walking from the cart to the gallows. The boy is hit a few times by items thrown at him or women coming up to slap his face, but there isn’t anything Haytham can do about that at the moment. He needs to get closer to the gallows, find a way to prevent the hanging or free the boy if he can’t. Since preventing the execution would mean revealing himself, he opts for the latter, as uneasy as the prospect of close timing and possible failure makes him. His progress through the throng of people is slower than the one of Thomas and his prisoner, which means that the boy is already up on the platform with a jute bag over his head by the time Haytham is close enough. He is vaguely aware of Charles delivering a speech, but doesn’t hear the words; he’s scanning the rooftops for Assassins—surely what fragmented Brotherhood exists wouldn’t let one of their own die?

He spots some, too far away to come to immediate aid, though there is an archer on a rooftop just behind him. It’s not what Haytham hoped for, but perhaps the most he can expect. He decides to wait it out; the archer, if he’s a true shot, might be able to sever the rope and if anything goes awry, Haytham is close enough to shove people aside and cut the rope before the boy chokes. Perhaps in the confusion of the moment, Charles won’t recognise his face.

From the moment the floor drops away from the boy’s feet, things become a blur Haytham has difficulty piecing back together later. He thinks there is the whistle of an arrow through the air and the thunk as it makes contact with the beam, and he thinks he throws a knife to sever the last bit of rope at one point; all he knows for certain is that the boy drops to the street, gasping for breath but getting to his feet to tear after Thomas, who made himself scarce as soon as Haytham’s knife severed the rope. Haytham does not wait for the conclusion; as soon as the boy is up on his feet, he uses the panicked flight of the masses to vanish and return to his horse. He’s back at Fort George before the first civilians begin to trickle back into the southern part of the city.

As soon as he’s inside, he stows his cloak into his closet, takes off his weapons and sets them aside, and puts his coat back on. He returns to his desk and sits down, correspondence open as he left it, but instead of returning to it, he steeples his fingers together in thought.

Even before he left, he had expected some sense of regret, a realisation that he made a mistake by letting the boy live, by the time the rush of adrenaline would have faded. Instead, there is nothing except a vague glow of satisfaction he can’t entirely place, but doesn’t find unpleasant per say. The sense of having made a grave mistake doesn’t come.

None of his expectations seem to come true of late.

His wrist aches. He rubs it with a distracted mind and focuses on his correspondence.

 

*          *          *

 

When Charles returns later to tell Haytham about the failed execution, he’s fuming, and he spends a solid five minutes going on and on about a Connor and how he is going to be a problem if he already got to William, John, and now Thomas. Haytham blames it on fatigue that he doesn’t immediately make the connection and has to ask, “Connor?” and receive a rather blank stare from Charles and his confused, “The Assassin, sir,” before the penny drops.

Connor. His son’s name is Connor.

For some reason, the name doesn’t sit right with him, doesn’t fit the boy, as if the name was meant for someone else but he fell into it. The name is wrong, but Haytham can’t possibly say why he feels so. Nor does he get the time to find out; Charles is looking at him oddly, and Haytham realises it must have shown on his face that his thoughts were elsewhere. He apologises with the ease of years of fake pleasantness and assures Charles that they will find a solution for the boy. In the meantime, he should focus on finding a way to work around Washington’s heightened security. Charles leaves him in good faith, as he always does, and Haytham sits back down at this desk.

What he doesn’t tell Charles is that he has no idea whether he will be able to make true on the promise.

 

*          *          *

 

“We have a lead on Church,” Charles tells him, two years later, when he walks into Haytham’s study. Haytham looks up immediately, and Charles tells him of the stolen supplies, tells him also that he will go in pursuit, but Haytham talks him out of it. He has a bone to pick with Benjamin Church, for one, and he would not like to see anyone do it for him. Other than that, and perhaps more importantly, Charles is needed in New York. Charles, as usual, does not argue, accepts Haytham’s judgment, and helps him prepare for the journey.

 

*          *          *

 

He doesn’t find Church.

Instead, he finds Connor.

Granted, the boy isn’t exactly quiet about his approach. Haytham spares a brief thought as to how he was ever accepted into the Brotherhood with this lack of subtlety—even at age ten, he was better trained than this, what is the old fool Davenport thinking?—before he turns his mind to more practical matters. He’s already up in the rafters, has been ever since he heard Connor’s horse thundering up to the church, though at the time he still thought it was one of Church’s men. From his perch, he has the advantage, but only for so long; Connor hasn’t noticed him yet, but any moment, he will turn around and spot him, and Haytham will have lost the element of surprise. So instead of waiting for the boy to come to the inevitable conclusion that the church is empty and turn around to look elsewhere, Haytham jumps down from the rafters to knock him off his feet. To his credit, Connor doesn’t jump or panic, though he does grunt when his knees and then his back hit the floor. Once he’s actually down, he goes still, muscles tensed, likely so he can react immediately in case of an attempt on his life. So the boy has some skill after all. Good.

Haytham isn’t quite straddling him (why would he when a simple hand on his chest has the same effect?) and while he has no intention to kill the boy when he went through so much trouble to save his life two years ago, he’s not about to let Connor find out about that, so he has his hidden blade out where the boy can clearly see it. Brown eyes dart towards it but then settle on Haytham’s face, and Connor exhales.

“Father.” Haytham would be flattered he’s warranted the title if it didn’t sound so sardonic.

He smiles pleasantly. “Connor. Any last words?”

Connor is on immediate alert. He moves his right arm so that his elbow is pressed against the floor, ready to push him up if need be. Haytham doesn’t take his eyes off Connor’s face, but he imagines the boy’s feet are planted on the floor as well. “Wait,” Connor says, his voice slow and insistent, but his eyes flash for a moment—panic? Perhaps he remembers his previous close encounter with death.

Haytham shakes his head. “A poor choice.” He feints a stab towards Connor and gets hands shoving at his shoulders for his trouble, then a foot against his chest to push him away entirely. By the time he has righted himself, Connor is up on his feet and away from him. There is an awkward clench in his chest that makes him pause and consider for a moment, but before he can think on it too much, Connor has launched into a series of accusations about Church and the Order and really, that simply won’t do.

When he and Connor finally come to a mutual if grudging truce, the clench has subsided and he has forgotten about the feeling.

After that, making his way to Church’s camp without being seen (he’s aware he’s sent Connor on the job, but he would be a lousy Grandmaster if he left the matter in the dubiously capable hands of an Assassin) and, even later, being seen anyway (fatigue, he has been riding for a long time after all) and being dragged before one of the higher ups requires most of his attention. Suffice to say that getting punched in the jaw is a good distraction, too.

Well. At least Connor is there to come to his aid.

As he watches his son fight off the mercenaries that surround them, he contemplates escaping the scene and returning to New York to think on his next steps concerning Church, and he almost calls out to Connor to meet him there once he’s done, but ultimately decides against it. This is the boy he saved from the gallows, his son; while he hasn’t been there to see the boy grow up, he feels he should at least make an effort to know him now, even if it’s a futile attempt. So he swallows his words and helps Connor dispatch of the last remaining mercenaries, and they walk to their horses together.

They ride mostly in silence. On multiple occasions, Haytham has the urge to reach out and—well, touch, he supposes, whether it is to brush snow off Connor’s shoulder or checking a cut on his cheek, and he can’t possibly explain. He has nothing to compare it with, but he is almost certain paternal instincts don’t extend to the constant need for touching. Throughout it all, his wrist keeps aching. He really should have that looked at once Church has been dealt with.

He disperses his thoughts with a minute shake of his head and keeps his hands tightly around the reins. The urge to reach out doesn’t dissipate, but at least he doesn’t give into it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Sometimes I want to shake Haytham so badly and tell him to stop being an oblivious idiot, because he’s such a moron when it comes to feelings and soul mates. You might wonder if Haytham really is that dumb that he doesn’t realise only the wrist with his soul mate’s name on it hurts and that it only hurts when he's thinking about Connor and the answer is yes—Haytham really is that dumb.  
> 2\. Yes, Bowden's writing is an atrocity at times, but Haytham rescuing Connor was one of my favourite things ever, so I kept it in.  
> 3\. DO HORSES HAVE PRONOUNS.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun DUUUUNNNN.
> 
> Enjoy and sorry for the slight delay!

From what little he understands of life mates—not a topic of conversation with Achilles at any point, only rarely one with the Clan Mother, and never with anyone else—Connor knows that life mates are supposed to be absolutely and unquestioningly loyal to each other. That they cannot hurt each other, that the pull towards each other will prevent them. They can bicker and argue, but they always feel the need to apologise. They are honest, have no need to lie or deceive. Put simply, they make each other happy.

With Haytham, it is not even remotely like that. Haytham is simply aggravating.

He is condescending, treats him like an ignorant child, and when Connor berates him for something he has done—killing the driver of Church’ cart, for instance—he simply gives him this look of disappointment at his naïveté and tells him to go do this task or that. It is infuriating.

From the moment Haytham tells him to infiltrate Church’s camp, Connor’s face is set into a permanent scowl, which only deepens when Haytham is careless enough to let himself get caught but sits there with a bruised jaw yet still looking perfectly at ease with the knowledge that Connor will come to his aid. His arrogance almost makes Connor consider leaving him to fend for himself, but almost as soon as the thought occurs, his wrist burns angrily and his chest clenches, and he dismisses the thought, though the unpleasant feeling only subsides once he has embedded his tomahawk into the shoulder of the man responsible for Haytham’s bruised jaw.

A moment later, his irritation returns, because while Haytham helps him take care of the other two mercenaries that held him up, he does absolutely nothing to assist him in dispatching of their reinforcements, choosing to simply watch Connor from a distance, as if judging his skill. Once the majority of the mercenaries lay dead at Connor’s feet and the rest has run off, he simply dusts off his clothes before he looks over at Connor and tells him to get to the horses and follow him without so much as a thank you. Connor glares at the back of his head and only barely resists the urge to stomp, because that would make him seem like a child and give Haytham yet more ammunition.

While Connor has no grand idea of what life mates are supposed to be, he knows it is not this.

 

*          *          *

 

After their initial cooperation (if Haytham ordering him around can be called that) and spending the entire journey to New York in silence, Connor has realised that, while Haytham may know they are blood, he has not even the vaguest conception of their deeper connection. How he can ignore the pull, Connor has no idea, but Haytham seems not as preoccupied with resisting the urge to move closer as Connor is.

For a while, he is confused, because he cannot understand how he can be affected so strongly and Haytham not at all, before he realises that it is the name. Haytham has only ever called him Connor since first meeting him, which is very logical since Connor has not gone by Ratonhnhaké:ton outside of his village for years, and explains why Haytham has no idea that Connor is his life mate. Perhaps that is also why he can resist the pull—perhaps it is not as strong because Haytham has not yet realised.

The knowledge that he is alone in his predicament only serves to anger him further, though this anger is directed at some unseen force, the one who saw fit to connect him and Haytham in such a way, rather than at Haytham himself.

And yet, despite his anger and the knowledge that Haytham does not know, there is curiosity, a need to know more about his life mate, to understand the way his mind works. So, as they stop on a rooftop to allow for Haytham to orient himself, he asks. For all his silence en route, Haytham is surprisingly forthcoming, if short in his answers. Once Connor broaches the subject of the Templars, however, he turns around to face Connor and explains in detail. For a moment, Connor thinks he can talk to Haytham about their orders, convince him that they may be seeking the same thing, but then Haytham ends his answer with, “It’s your lot that means to confound with this nonsense talk of freedom. Time was, the Assassins professed a far more sensible goal—that of peace.”

Connor only notices Haytham has stepped closer to him when he turns away, and the thought that his father may be affected after all crosses his mind, but it’s quickly replaced by the need to defend his Order, to knock Haytham off his high horse. This, of course, results in an argument, since Haytham is adamant to defend _his_ Order, and ends with Haytham walking away and leaving Connor to follow, stewing in his anger.

Their mood does not get any better, especially when Haytham sees fit to act like it tests the boundaries of his patience to consent to Connor’s plan of taking a guard’s uniform. Connor feels like strangling him; he has done absolutely nothing to warrant Haytham’s attitude or sarcasm, which only serves to rile him up—even more so because he does not know whether Haytham does it on purpose or not.

At any rate, he is tired of arguing. With a dismissive gesture, he leaves Haytham to his own devices and goes off in search of a guard off-duty.

 

*          *          *

 

With Haytham, all he has ever felt is raw emotion.

He has spent years of his life being angry with Haytham, but after Bridewell, the feeling diminished, and he half-expected his first actual meeting with Haytham to be companiable, or at the very least non-hostile. While he realises now that that might have been too much to hope for, he still believes they could at least try not to aggravate each other for the duration of their truce. Instead, he is only angry.

The main reason why he is so angry is, despite all of it, all of the character traits that should have made it clear that his father is not the life mate he should want, he still does. He still wants to reach out, still wants Haytham to reach out, if only to stop him in his tracks when they walk, still wants Haytham to realise what they are, to accept him. He still wants Haytham’s praise or at the very least approval, even as he is angry with himself for wanting it. He is angry with himself for puffing up his chest when Haytham reaches out to straighten his jacket— _does he feel it, is he as affected but better at hiding it?_ —and for his surprise and the warm glow in his chest when Haytham openly acknowledges him as his son.

But he is still so angry with Haytham. Because he lies. Withholds information. Mocks. Treats him as less than he is. Never shows what he feels except when Mother is concerned. Only when Connor tells him how Mother died is his face open and honest, shock and hurt plain. It is the first time he speaks to Connor as if he is not trying to charm him over to the Templars, the first time he does not treat him like a child, the first time he lets on that he might not want Connor’s animosity, the first time he does not mock.

He has had enough.

Later, he is not proud of the way he loses his temper, nor of the words he cannot take back, _especially_ not of the way he grows jealous of his mother, but at the time, it feels good to finally snap at Haytham, make him feel only a fraction of the discomfort he has been dealing with ever since their first proper meeting in the church. It feels good to hear him at a loss for words, the act gone, even if the feeling is fleeting and quickly replaced by focus, and then the heart-pounding rush of needing to keep Haytham safe, away from swords and bullets.

Once the impostor is dead and he spots the gunmen up top, he pulls Haytham behind a stack of crates to shield him from their bullets, but they do not take aim at them, instead opting for firing at a couple of barrels of gunpowder, likely in order to prevent their escape. Once the smoke from the blast has cleared and the fire begins to spread, they look at each other and scramble to their feet. Connor’s anger is forgotten in favour of escape, and he points Haytham to a way up.

He loses him in the flames and faulty construction and falls behind trying to find a different way up. By the time he finally hoists himself up to the attic, Haytham is facing off against two of the gunmen, the third dead against one of the walls; when Connor tries to push himself up and take care of one of them, one of the beams, likely damaged by the heat or flames, comes away from the ceiling and falls through the floor, taking both the gunmen and Haytham with it.

Connor scrambles to his feet, heart pounding in his chest. His wrist burns as if the fire has gotten to it and he feels nauseous with fear as he hurries over to the hole in the floor and looks down.

Haytham has grabbed on to the ledge with one arm and looks up at him, and now Connor can read his eyes, can read the plea in them, and for a moment, he remembers Mother, sees her face as she died, but then he drops to his knees and takes Haytham’s arm to pull him to safety. Once he is back on his feet, Haytham looks at him and thanks him with a nod, and Connor forgets to move until Haytham walks away to find a way out.

The reason why he tackles Haytham through the door is not to irritate him, as Haytham’s expression shows he thinks, but simply to get him away from the flames as quickly as possible. Once in the water, he immediately looks over to see if Haytham is alright and exhales slowly once Haytham turns to glare at him. Relief makes him giddy, quipping back a remark that makes Haytham roll his eyes and swim back to shore.

Once they have shaken some of the water from their clothes, Haytham is all business, which, though slightly jarring, does nothing to evaporate Connor’s relief. Before Haytham can come up with plans that would take more time than they would gain, he interjects that he has a ship they can use, and while Haytham does not look thrilled at the prospect, he at least refrains from protesting. Connor leaves him to get a change of clothes and goes to recover his robes.

 

*          *          *

 

Though it is obvious that Haytham would rather be anywhere else than on the _Aquila_ , he keeps quiet about it and retreats to Connor’s cabin as soon as they have boarded. Connor resembles him enough that none of the crew dare ask about the extra passenger, but Mr Faulkner makes the connection between Connor’s father and the Templars and gives Connor a dubious look when he takes the wheel. Connor assures him his father is here for Benjamin Church only, and that he will do nothing to antagonise or harm the crew or the ship. Though Mr Faulkner nods and seems to accept his answer, Connor can see that doubt remains. He does not question it; had he been in Mr Faulkner’s shoes, he would have done the same.

The hours at the helm give him time to calm down, so that his residual irritation has largely faded by the time he hands over the wheel to catch some sleep.

A week passes in an almost companionable silence. Haytham spends most of his time looking over his notes or maps, and when he comes topside, he paces the deck in thought or stands by Connor at the helm in silence, looking out over the ocean. In spite of his silence and lack of acerbic comments, or perhaps because of them, Connor can see he is ill at ease and restless. His eyes never stop moving, tracking the slightest bit of movement on the deck as if keeping a close eye on a potential threat, and when he does speak, it is to ask if there is any way to go faster. Connor tries to assure him they will catch up to Church, but he does not need to know Haytham well to see it is a futile assurance.

As time wears on, Haytham’s temper grows shorter and they bicker more, so Connor is almost shocked when Haytham glances up at him when he enters his cabin one night, and actually asks him if he is alright. Connor answers with a bewildered yes and almost wants to ask why Haytham is taking a sudden interest, but he swallows it back for fear of irritating his father just when he finally seems to be in a better mood.

Haytham hums in response and turns back to his maps, leaving Connor to hang his coat over the back of a chair and climb onto his cot. Just as he settles down, Haytham asks, “What’s your actual name?”

Connor freezes. His heart thunders in his ears. “What?”

“You can’t tell me your mother picked Connor for you.” Haytham looks up from his notes and meets Connor’s eyes. His face is not one of extreme curiosity, but it is not the same mask Haytham normally wears when speaking to him. “Well?”

Connor avoids his eyes and sits up. “It doesn’t matter.” He reaches for his coat and pulls it on—perhaps another few hours at the helm will make Haytham forget about the question.

Haytham sighs irritably. “Don’t be contrary when I’m trying to take an interest.”

Connor looks at him. If he continues to avoid the question, Haytham will only press further, try to find out why it is that he refuses to answer. It will perhaps buy him a few more moments, but the result will be the same. So, despite the fact that every fibre of his being is screaming at him to flee, he takes a breath and answers, “Ratonhnhaké:ton.”

As soon as he has said it, he feels torn. Part of him, likely the part that still yearns for Haytham’s touch, waits in nervous anticipation, because Haytham will know, after this, what they are. This part is happy about it because no matter what happens, he will no longer be the only one suffering from it. The other part is more rational, knows that the odds of this ending well are slim, that the most likely outcome is Haytham walking away and either pretending he has never heard the name, or pulling away from him. Perhaps this part of him hopes that the pronunciation will throw Haytham off, that he will not realise, even as he knows how unlikely it is.

He watches Haytham’s expression closely for any reaction, and is at once glad he does so, because he would have missed the way Haytham’s shoulders tense if he had not been looking for it. He swallows but does not dare move.

A few tense seconds later, Haytham gets up. Connor’s stomach drops. Without a word, Haytham leaves the cabin. Connor remains on the cot, staring at the chair his father only just occupied. He feels cold.

 

*          *          *

 

He finds Haytham at the front of the deck about an hour later, hands set on the railing, his face devoid of colour and mouth set into a grim, firm line. Connor sets his feet down deliberately to announce his arrival and halts a good distance away from Haytham, fiddling with his hands. There is no one aside from the two of them at this part of the ship; the crew give them a wide berth.

Haytham does not acknowledge his arrival, though Connor can see his hands curl into fists on the railing. Connor has no idea what to expect. Haytham is closed off, and while it is normally hard to get a grasp of how he is feeling, it is doubly so now. Connor rubs his hands together and looks at the floor, unsure.

There is no anger now. Only discomfort and insecurity.

Haytham is silent for a long time. When he does speak, he does not turn around. “This changes nothing.” His voice is certain, much as it was when discussing Washington on the New York rooftop, but there is a pinch to it that Connor cannot place. He wishes he were better at reading Haytham, perhaps then he would know what this tone means.

He steps closer. “So what do you suggest we do, simply ignore it?”

“Yes.” Haytham’s tone is clipped. He still does not turn around and continues to watch out over the sea as he speaks, as if he can pretend Connor is not there if he does not see him. “You are my son. I’m not yet that morally depraved.”

He should have expected this. He did expect this. Still, his stomach clenches painfully, and he has to press his thumb into his palm to prevent himself from reaching out. “What if I can’t?” He is grasping at straws. He knows there is no way he will be able to convince Haytham; he simply refuses to accept it.

“You will find a way. Apparently, you’ve done a great job at it for the past few years.” Haytham finally turns, though he looks through Connor rather than at him. “We will finish this business with Church and go our separate ways.” He dusts off his sleeve and tugs at his cuff. It is a sign of discomfort, Connor realises—Haytham is afraid. Perhaps he has a chance, if he can get Haytham to listen.

“Father—” It is a force of habit, but, he realises belatedly, the wrong thing to say.

Haytham fixes him with a dark look that makes him want to recoil. “Don’t argue with me, boy,” he snaps, walks past him. “This discussion is over.”

Connor watches him in mounting disbelief and desperation. _”Discussion?_ ” he says, more in an attempt to make Haytham stop and argue than to actually vent the anger he does not feel. “I thought this was you laying down the law!”

But Haytham does not even turn. “Good _night_ , Connor.” With that, he disappears below decks. The hatch shuts heavily behind him.

Connor stares at the spot his father only just occupied with a dawning sense of finality. His chest feels heavy and constricted, as if someone is standing on it, and it takes effort to breath properly. He wants to walk after Haytham and demand answers, demand a different solution, something that will not hurt this much, but he is rooted to the spot. His entire life, he has been so sure of what to do—after Mother died, he knew to become stronger, to seek a mentor, someone who would help him get to Charles Lee. He knew to help the Patriots, to support Washington, to help him free the people. He knew to track down the Templars and thin their ranks. At any point in time, he was certain of where to go next.

Not this time. This time, he has no idea what he should do.

Finally, he leans heavily on the railing and grips his hair, head down, staring sightlessly at the wood. He remains like that until a hand lands on his shoulder. For the split of a second, he dares to think it is Haytham, but then realises there is no lurch in his stomach, and looks up to find Mr Faulkner next to him. He does not ask, but there is concern on his face. Connor smiles a little, hesitant. He would tell him in a heartbeat if his life mate were any other person.

Instead, he takes the wheel. While it does not exactly help, it keeps his mind largely occupied and tires him so that when he goes to Mr Faulkner’s cabin for some sleep (he would rather avoid Haytham for now), he falls asleep almost instantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate it when they argue, but by God, is it fun to write.
> 
> I'm also very sorry.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the sads that was the previous chapter. I also apologise that I enjoyed watching you all be sad about it. I'm a horrible person, really.
> 
> Enjoy this one!

Twenty years ago, on the ship back to the Colonies, he had sat down by the light of the lamp hanging from a hook attached to the ceiling of his cabin and studied the lines on his wrist, and concluded he would perhaps have to reconcile himself with the fact that his soul mate was a man.

The sole reason for this was the fact that Ziio’s name, when she had pronounced it, had a feminine quality to it, and this name on his wrist, in the garbled pronunciation his mind had conjured up, sounded infinitely more masculine.

Of course, none of this really mattered, since he still hadn’t decided what to do about the sudden existence of his soul mate.

His biggest concern was that he wasn’t sure what it meant, why this name had appeared on his wrist so suddenly when it hadn’t for the last thirty-odd years. He considered a number of possibilities, each one more ludicrous and uncomfortable than the last, of which the most disturbing by far had been that his soul mate might only have just been born. The thought was almost nauseating, so he had quickly dismissed it.

In hindsight, he would rather it were just that.

He asked Connor about the name Ziio had given him out of curiosity, and because he had the sneaking suspicion Achilles Davenport had been the one to pick his English name. He had never made the connection between his name appearing and Connor being born, had never even thought it was a possibility, so of course he couldn’t possibly have anticipated that the boy would say _that_ exact name. Connor’s pronunciation is nowhere close to the one in his head, but it makes immediate sense.

After the name falls from Connor’s lips, heavy as stone, he’s frozen in his chair for a few moments. His first instinct is to remove the bracer of his left wrist, look at the name, confirm what he’s just heard, but he can’t bring himself to do so—and besides, he doesn’t need to check to know the name Connor just mentioned is the one on his wrist. He knows it by the pounding of his heart in his chest, the pull in his stomach, the sickening urge to reach out and touch, comfort his soul mate, assure him everything will be alright.

But it won’t be. How could he reach out to Connor in such a way, say such words to him? It won’t be alright—Connor is his son. They can’t be anything other than they are. Anything other than their estranged familial relationship would be unnatural. They can’t. It would be wrong, no matter the names on their wrist, no matter if they were destined for each other. They are father and son. It would be wrong.

And yet Connor is looking at him cautiously, expectantly, hope obvious in his eyes. He wants, despite being what they are, Haytham to accept him as his soul mate, to ease the uncertainty and the suffering. He must have known for so long, waited for so long—

He needs air.

Haytham feels nauseous when he stands. He can’t find words to say. Doesn’t know what to say, what would make it better or— He simply doesn’t know. Connor looks crestfallen, eyes wide, almost panicked. His wrist burns. Every single one of his instincts screams at him to do something about Connor’s expression, that he’s hurting him, his soul mate, that he should do everything in his power to make sure his soul mate is never hurt, but what can he do? He’s not sure he would know exactly what to do if his soul mate had been any other person, but at least he would have a clearer idea than he has now. He would know better if his soul mate was any other person but his son.

He can’t do this.

He leaves.

 

*          *          *

 

The expression on his face must be a terrifying thing indeed, for the crew scramble to make room for him as he moves to the front of the ship. As he leans his hands on the railing and rests his weight on them, he can finally breathe. As much as his heart is still pounding at the thought of his soul mate being _right there_ , below decks, within reach, he can think.

How can this be?

In all of his years, even after he let go of his childish naïveté concerning the ways of the world, he had always been certain of one thing, and this was that there are no mistakes when it comes to soul mates. If he ever were to meet his soul mate, no matter how hard it would be to balance his duties with his personal life, things would fall into place. How could he possibly have foreseen this? A thing like this was never supposed to happen. His soul mate was supposed to be someone within reach, someone whom he could entrust his life to, who would understand his ambitions, even if they couldn’t agree with them.

In an ideal world, his soul mate would have been Ziio. Even in a world that is far from ideal, his soul mate was never supposed to be her son.

The worst part of it all is that, now that he knows, now that he has a face to go with the years of senseless longing, of avoiding thinking of the topic, of avoiding thinking about the possibility of finding his soul mate, he is actually wondering what it would be like. What it would be like if he forgot, for a moment, that Connor is of his blood, if he would simply know Connor as his soul mate and nothing else. What it would be like to finally have that one person meant for him, like Mother and Father had had each other. They had been happy. Would he be happy, truly happy, even more so than he had been with Ziio, if he allowed Connor closer, accepted him in the way he was meant to?

He moves away from his thoughts as if burned. He is an abomination for merely thinking about it.

Of course he argues with Connor once the boy carefully approaches him, uncertainty plain in his movements and expression. He must sever all sentiment between them; if he doesn’t, there will be the budding seed of hope, and he can’t allow that. He has a responsibility. He must make sure Connor understands that there is no way they can ever be anything but father and son, that if they cannot be that, they cannot be anything. It’s clear from the way that Connor pushes back, tries to interrupt him, that he refuses to accept this is all there will ever be, but Haytham can’t let him talk, can’t let him try to convince him, because, God forbid, what if he listened, what if he caved? What sort of person would he be if he allowed himself to cave?

So he is curter with him than he means to be, aims his words to hurt, as difficult as it is when everything inside of him tries to force him the other way. He tugs at his sleeve to give his hands something to do, so they won’t reach out and give Connor the comfort he’s looking for.

It doesn’t help; Connor still tries, so Haytham does the only other thing he can think of, and that is end the discussion and seclude himself. He pretends he doesn’t notice the way Connor stares at him as he leaves.

 

*          *          *

 

He locks himself in Connor’s cabin and wedges the wooden chair under the doorknob. His initial resolve is to go to sleep, in the hopes that he will have forgotten about it in the morning (as futile as it is to do so) but of course, no matter how hard he tries, sleep won’t come to him.

He lights a lamp and rolls up his sleeve, looks at Connor’s name.

In hindsight, he has no idea how he didn’t notice before. He should have recognised the pull in his chest when he felt it at Bridewell, should have realised the urge to touch wasn’t because of paternal sentiments. He should have realised this insane need of his to keep Connor alive was fuelled by something deeper than a responsibility towards Ziio and himself to keep their son from harm. He should have made the connection between Connor’s birth and the appearance of the name on his wrist. He should have known better. He prides himself on being an intelligent man, after all; he should have foreseen this.

But how could he have? Until an hour ago, he had never thought it possible, that family members could share any other bond than that.

He only realises he’s been staring at the door and contemplating finding Connor when footsteps pass by the cabin and shake him from his reverie. He becomes aware of a disturbing sense of longing to take back his words, forget their blood relation, and simply let himself have what he wants. If he’s honest with himself, he has waited a lifetime for this moment, as much as he tries to tell himself it isn’t so. Part of him—and he knows exactly what part it is—is telling him to just give in. It would be so much easier, the rewards so much sweeter.

No. They can’t. He stands by what he told Connor on the upper deck. Regardless of what further connection might be meant for them, they are father and son. He will not cross that line. He will stand firm. One of them has to; if he lets his guard down, Connor will press his advantage. One of them has to remember the bounds of propriety. He has made many mistakes in his life, he can concede that, but doing this to his son will not be one of them.

He doesn’t understand how Connor is not be disgusted by the identity of his soul mate. In hindsight, he should have expected some form of reluctance on Connor’s behalf to work so closely together with his father, who also happens to be his soul mate. But if Connor had expressed anger and disappointment at Haytham’s life choices, his allegiance with the Templars and with Charles, he had never expressed any signs of discomfort of disgust at working together, or even an unwillingness to be by his side.

But then, the boy has presumably known for a number of years. Perhaps he initially felt the same way Haytham feels now; perhaps years have dulled his disgust into a quiet acceptance. Perhaps, with time, Haytham will also—

No.

He won’t allow it. He can’t allow it. He has spent his entire life without a soul mate; he can do so for the few years that still remain. He will manage. He has to manage.

 

*          *          *

 

It’s another week before they sail within sight of Martinique. He sleeps little and, from what he can see in the brief moments he sees him, so does Connor. They haven’t spoken since the night Connor revealed his true name, though not for lack of trying on Connor’s behalf. Each time Haytham comes topside for a breath of fresh air, Connor’s eyes immediately come to rest on him, and while he doesn’t make a move to approach him, Haytham can see that he wants to. Eventually, Connor looks away, and Haytham moves below decks again.

It figures that the first time he actually speaks to Connor, it’s to comment on his poor choice of route. He has no idea why he has to rub salt into the wounds, and from the way Connor refuses to even glare at him like he did when Haytham did something to offend him before this entire mess started, he can tell that the boy knows what he’s doing and doesn’t take kindly to it. Instead of arguing with him, though, he keeps his eyes on where he’s going and merely says, “We are closer than you think, Father,” with a disturbing emphasis on _father_ before he stops talking completely, leaving Haytham in silent unease. He’s not used to Connor being the one to shut down their arguments, and he can’t say that he likes it.

As soon as Church’s ship comes into view, they share a look, and Haytham concedes to letting this business rest until after they’ve apprehended Church. It’s the reason they’re out here in the first place, after all, and the godforsaken bastard has to pay, whether he and Connor are on speaking terms or not.

The chase makes him restless, though, and patience has never been his strongest suit. When Connor is so slow and careful with his approach—which, considering that the Aquila is his ship, makes sense, but still drives Haytham to insanity—the last strand of his patience snaps, and he shoves Connor out of the way to take the wheel and ram the Aquila into Church’s ship. As soon as the worst shocks pass, he is leaping over to the other ship, driving his hidden blade into an unfortunate sailor that happens to be in his way.

Church is near the doors to the hold and momentarily freezes when he spots him, but then he’s darting through the doors and away, and Haytham only barely resists the urge to roll his eyes, because _really?_

He follows Church through the doors and blocks them with a wooden plank that came of off the side. He has things he wishes to say to Benjamin Church, and if Connor were to follow immediately (which he will), he would not get a chance to say them.

Church rounds on him when he shuts the doors, eyes wide and jaw set as he fumbles around for a weapon. Haytham, his sword already drawn, is quicker, and wastes no time in charging at him. Church is younger than he is by over a decade, but he hasn’t spent his entire life honing his skills and practising his footwork, dependent as he always was on those stronger than him, so it hardly takes any effort to knock him off his feet and to hold him down. With one hand clenching the front of Church’s shirt and the other one poised to attack, Haytham looks down at him, at the face of the man who took his services and thanked him by betraying him, and laughs. Church looks at him as if he’s gone mad. Perhaps he has. It would explain much.

He presses his knee against one of Church’s wrists to pin his arm and prevent him from getting up. “So here we are, face to face at last, my friend,” he says, entirely pleasant but for the sardonic emphasis on the last two words. As he talks, fury bubbles up in his throat, and he can’t stop his voice from rising even if he tries. “It’s been quite an adventure, let me tell you—working my way through your nasty little tricks and traps. Clever. Some of them, anyway. I’ll give you credit for that.” Church hisses at him and tries to free his wrist; Haytham slams his head into the wooden floor to daze him and continues, “And for the _quietude_ with which you pulled it off.” His hand tightens on Church’s shirt; he’s positively shouting now. “We had a dream, Benjamin! A dream you sought to destroy. And for that, my fallen friend, you will be made to pay.”

If it was satisfying to give voice to his anger, it’s nothing compared to the full-bodied satisfaction of punching Church’s face until it bleeds and can barely be recognised. He has never focused so much of his ire on one target; even at the monastery on Mount Ghebel Eter, while he had made sure death would not come quickly to the priests enclosed there, he had not spent so much time with each of them. His anger then had been quick and ever in motion; now, it burns low in his gut and shows no intention of abating, no matter how many times his fists comes into contact with Church’s face.

(Later, he will wonder whether his anger is directed solely at Church or also at the entire situation with Connor, with Church as a convenient outlet.)

He only lets go of him when Connor tells him to, remembering that the boy has his own reasons to want to get to Church. Reluctantly, which one last punch to Church’s jaw, he steps away, flexing his wrist and getting rid of the stiffness as he does so. He watches, pacing, as Connor attempts to interrogate Church about the location of the stolen supplies, and rolls his eyes at the speech Church makes about the right cause of the British Empire. He’s trained Church for better than this. It’s really quite pathetic to watch him.

Still, if Church’s words seem empty to him, they have an effect on Connor, since his jaw is set when he rises, his shoulders tense, his eyes flashing as he looks at Church’s corpse. Without thinking, Haytham steps closer with the intention of saying something to ease the boy’s mind and erase Church’s words. He forgets, for a moment, that while he’s never been a particularly tactile person, the pull makes him so around Connor, and makes the mistake of placing his hand in between Connor’s shoulder blades as he speaks.

He feels Connor tense further under his hand and by all means, he should step back and apologise, create distance, perhaps retreat to the cabin so that this _thing_ between them can simmer and fade away, as it should, but his body moves without his consent, crowds Connor against the wall. There should be a moment of hesitation, but there isn’t. It’s one smooth movement from pressing him against the wall to leaning in to kiss him.

Connor’s hands flutter uselessly by his shoulders for a moment, but then they grab hold of the front of Haytham’s coat with a soft groan, and they’re kissing in earnest.

Lost in the sensation of _finally_ , of years of nameless longing, of finally being this close to his soul mate after he thought it would never happen, Haytham has a hard time recalling why he pushed this off in the first place. After all, it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done to move back in for another kiss, and another after that, to lick into Connor’s mouth for just a taste. Connor is pliant against him, opens his mouth obediently to Haytham’s tongue, moves with him when he tilts his head to the side a little to gain better access. It’s so easy to just kiss him again and again until they’re panting against each other’s mouths, to press just that bit closer, to just—

From above, one of the crew members calls out to Connor that the ship is secure. They freeze as one, faces inches apart. For a few moments, they simply look at each other, Connor’s eyes searching his face, before Haytham removes his hands from Connor’s waist and steps back; Connor’s hands drop away from his coat.

Now that they aren’t touching anymore, the realisation of what he’s just done rests heavily on his shoulders. He’s not quite sure how to feel—on the one hand, there is a glow of contentment that he’s sure is not his own but rather of this same something that keeps urging him towards his soul mate; on the other hand, he feels cold with the knowledge that he crossed the line after he swore up and down that he would never cross it, that he has kissed his _son_ , his child.

The worst part, though, is that there is hope in Connor’s eyes after he went to such trouble to extinguish it. The worst part is that this means that he has to start over. He can’t allow this to progress any further than it already has. He must make it clear to Connor that this was a mistake and that it’s not going to happen again. He has to. It’s his responsibility to do so, especially now that he’s the one to have made this mistake.

But even as he tries, he can’t say the words. One look at Connor’s face and he can’t do it, can’t even think of anything to say that could shatter that expression of careful want.

The only thing he can do is look away and straighten his coat and pretend he doesn’t see the confusion on Connor’s face as he does so. The only thing he can do is pretend nothing happened.

“Come on,” he says, starts walking back towards the steps that will take them back topside. “I expect you’ll want my help retrieving everything from the island?”

He knows Connor will want to speak to him, will want answers. He has no idea yet how he’s going to break it to him that this was the first and only time this will happen, how he’s going to dash what little hope blooms in Connor’s eyes, and not knowing makes him anxious, but for the time being, at least, Connor simply follows him back to the Aquila and they load the supplies Church stole onto the ship without a word. Connor takes the wheel once they’re ready to set off, so Haytham can retreat back to his cabin to think things over. So long as Connor is busy on the upper deck, he can still hide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone else find this mission really satisfying? Maybe because I didn't like Church from the very beginning. Hmm.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your comments on the previous chapter! <3 Love you all.
> 
> Enjoy this one!

Haytham kissed him, which Connor would be happy about, were it not for the fact that it changes absolutely nothing.

What had come over Haytham to kiss him after making it painfully clear nothing of the sort would ever happen between the two of them, Connor did not know, but he would not complain—Haytham kissed him.

For a long while after Haytham has moved away and they leave Church’s ship to sink to the ocean floor, this is the only coherent thought running through Connor’s mind. As they dock near the island and load the supplies onto the _Aquila_ , that thought is supplemented by the memory of how good it felt, and the realisation that he wants more. He wants Haytham’s lips again, wants his hands on him, wants his body pressing close, wants more of his scent, wants more of that contented glow.

He hands over the last of the supplies to one of his crew and looks over at Haytham, who is brushing sand off his clothing as he walks back to the _Aquila_. They have not said a word since leaving Church’s ship, but then perhaps that is not so strange. It is only a week ago that Haytham told him their situation would not change, that he was not yet so morally depraved, as he had called it, to accept his son as his life mate. Perhaps it would be too much to ask for one kiss to change that belief in the blink of an eye. He will give Haytham time to think it over, to come to the conclusion that this is bigger than either of them can fight, and that he can only give in to it. All he needs is time.

Five days later, he knows he was wrong.

Haytham has not spoken to him, has not tried to seek him out, has not tried to talk. The first day, Connor concluded he still needed time, and was prepared to wait patiently for Haytham to make up his mind. With each subsequent day that passed, he grew increasingly restless; Haytham made sure to stay far away from him, was asleep by the time Connor went down to his cabin, and gone long before Connor woke up. They passed each other on the steps on occasion, but Haytham had always rounded the corner before Connor could stop him and draw him aside. It had taken him until yesterday to concede that Haytham had not changed his mind and was avoiding him.

That brings him where he is now, glowering at the ocean as he steers the _Aquila_ away from shallow waters.

He is not sure how to feel. He is aware of anger and disappointment and growing desperation, but there are a hundred smaller emotions at war that he cannot pinpoint. He feels restless. He wants to run, climb, like he used to when he had the time to clear his head. The only place he can run to here is the other side of the ship, and the only place he can climb to is the crow’s nest, neither of which are very satisfying. He can do nothing but grip onto the wheel and try to calm his itching hands.

Or he can talk to Haytham.

If he is honest with himself, a conversation with his father is not something he is looking forward to, not after their last discussion and not when he knows Haytham will not give him an inch of leeway. All he will get out of trying to talk to him is more frustration.

But he has to do something, or he will spend the entire journey back to New York tense and restless, and he and Haytham will drift apart as soon as they set foot on land.

The thought is enough to make him hand over the wheel to Mr Faulkner and move below decks, not looking at any of the crew as he walks. He opens the door to his cabin and immediately looks towards the cot.

It is only barely seven o’clock, and Haytham is already fast asleep. Connor may not know his father well, but he does know that Haytham works until late in the evening, that he hates wasting time. He only started going to bed early after he found out about Connor’s real name.

That aside, his breathing has not evened out yet.

Connor pauses, closes the door behind him. Without moving from his spot, he says, “I know you’re awake.” He watches as Haytham’s shoulders tense minutely, barely enough to be considered a reaction, but with his father, the smallest gestures carry the greatest meaning. Haytham says nothing in response, of course, does not turn to face Connor or even move aside from the (Connor is sure) involuntary tensing of his shoulders, so Connor steps closer to the cot, his hand lingering on the back of the chair by the desk. “Do you still think we should ignore it?”

For a long time, Haytham says nothing. Then, finally, he sits up, turned towards Connor but not actually looking at him. “Nothing has changed,” he says, bending to pull on his boots. His voice is steady and sure, without a trace of possible doubt, but his refusal to look at Connor reveals his discomfort, as does the fact that he is readying himself to flee the scene. Connor moves to block his path to the door automatically, feet planted firmly apart and shoulders squared. He will not let his father leave, not without trying to get through to him. Even if it will not gain him anything, Haytham must know how he feels about this entire situation.

“Really,” he says flatly.

“Yes, really.” Haytham looks up, sees Connor is blocking his way to the door, and narrows his eyes, though he makes no comment. “Whatever did you expect, boy? That what happened on Church’s ship would magically change my mind? Even you can’t be that blindly idealistic.”

“‘What happened on Church’s ship’ is that we kissed,” says Connor, jaw set, though he ignores Haytham’s jab at his idealism. “Why won’t you call it what it is?”

“ _What happened on Church’s ship,_ ” Haytham repeats sharply as he stands, his hand twitching as if it wants to engage the hidden blade on Haytham’s wrist, “was a mistake, and one I won’t make again. Now kindly move out of the way.”

Connor narrows his eyes. “No. I want to talk about this.”

Haytham heaves a long-suffering sigh and rolls his eyes upward before looking back at Connor, straightening. His hand still clenches into a loose fist on occasion. “Connor, listen to me—”

He is going to cut the discussion short again, like he did two weeks ago. Connor refuses to let him; he came down to talk, to get his point across, not to be treated like a recalcitrant child. So he looks Haytham in the eye and takes a step closer. “No, Father, you listen to me.”

Haytham snaps his mouth shut and visibly recoils. For a while, he says nothing, looking at Connor as if he wishes to make him spontaneously combust; then, he sits back down on the bed, crossing his arms. A defence mechanism, this time, not his usual smugness, Connor notes from the set of his shoulders. “If you absolutely _must_ discuss this further,” Haytham says grudgingly, glaring, “don’t call me that.”

Connor pulls up the chair, turning it backwards so that he can get up and step back in the blink of an eye if Haytham chooses to try his luck at running. “That is your objection, isn’t it?” he says seriously as he sits down, bracing his arms on the back of the chair. “That because you are my father, it is wrong.”

Haytham looks at him like he has grown a second head. “And you would disagree?”

“Yes,” Connor says immediately. “Why should it matter what we are and what I call you when you want it and I want it?”

Haytham scoffs. “Roughly everyone else in the world would disagree with you.”

“Everyone else in the world doesn’t need to know.” Why is Haytham making such a fuss about the rest of the world? What is it with white men and their need to make something as personal and intimate as their relationships with their life mates public knowledge?

Haytham looks at him for a long while, as if considering, then uncrosses his arms and sighs. “You don’t realise what it is you’re asking for,” he says, but there is something about his voice that feels like resignation, like giving in. Hopeful, Connor shifts forward on the chair.

“And you don’t realise I’ve known about you since I was thirteen,” he says, watches as Haytham starts twisting his Templar ring around his finger absently. He presses on. “I have had plenty of time to change my mind. If I haven’t done so now, I’m not going to soon.”

Haytham says nothing, but when he looks at Connor, the fight has gone from his eyes. Connor gets up from the chair and moves closer, watches Haytham’s reaction; though he eyes Connor’s movements warily, he makes no attempt to get up now that the path to the door is clear. Good. This is progress.

Carefully, Connor squats by the bed and seeks Haytham’s eyes. When Haytham finally, though obviously reluctantly, looks at him, he says, “You want it. And you know I want it. So why are you being so hard on yourself and denying yourself this opportunity?” He chances to put his hand on Haytham’s arm, still its movement. Looking up at him, he takes a breath, then finally asks, “Why are you denying me?”

Haytham’s eyes are seeking like they were on Church’s ship, locking onto his face. What Haytham is looking for now and was looking for then, Connor does not know; all he can do is meet Haytham’s gaze evenly and not move, keep his hand on Haytham’s arm and resist leaning closer, as doing so would likely undo what little progress he has made. It takes all of his willpower to sit still and wait, to resist the pull in his stomach and a treacherous voice in the back of his mind telling him to take what is his. He must wait.

After a while, Haytham looks down at his hand and heaves an unsteady sigh. “You’re as stubborn as your mother was,” he says, and the mention makes Connor tense and bristle at the same time—he does not like this person he has become when it concerns others in his father’s life—but Haytham raises his hand and cradles his jaw, and his voice is softer when he says, “You’ll be the death of me one day, you foolish lad.”

Connor would protest, but before he gets the chance to, Haytham leans just that bit closer, and Connor’s words die on his tongue as he bridges the gap between them.

This kiss is different than the one on Church’s ship. Then, it was rushed, urgent, with all the rush of Haytham’s unexpected closeness. This is almost cautious, slow, as if they are both testing their boundaries. The sensation of Haytham’s tongue in his mouth is still one he has trouble getting used to—he does not dislike it, not at all, but he is not sure whether he is comfortable with the way it makes his stomach tighten and his hands itch to pull Haytham closer. It almost seems too overwhelming, like he is drowning and cannot kick back to the surface in time.

When they pull apart, Connor’s hands are braced on Haytham’s upper legs and he is kneeling between his father’s thighs. It alarms him how he got there without his notice or consent, and wants to ask if Haytham forgets himself so, as well, but the last thing he wants to do is push too far. So he removes his hands and moves away slowly, straightening once he has created the proper distance. For a moment, he wavers, not knowing what to say, and eventually settles for, “I will go to sleep.”

Haytham looks at him and away from him and gives a nod. “Yes. Do so.” There is a moment in which neither of them moves. Connor looks at Haytham while Haytham straightens his shirt and does not look at him. Connor hopes it will not always be this uncomfortable, or it will be something they must talk about, and he is not sure whether there is time or opportunity for that, so soon.

For now, he lets it rest, and starts taking off his coat while he turns to the hammock he had hung from the ceiling before they left New York. It still is not the best place to sleep he has ever had, but sleep comes to him easier than it has in the past few weeks.

 

*          *          *

 

When he wakes a few hours later, Haytham is seated at the desk, writing. He seems to be concentrating, but when Connor gets up and pulls on his coat, he looks up from his work. For a few moments, he looks at Connor in silence, but then his expression smoothes out into a calm Connor has rarely seen on him. His posture seems relaxed in comparison to the night before, and his voice is light when he says, “Good morning.”

Connor releases a breath. “Good morning.”

“Are you going up?” Haytham puts down his quill and puts the cork back into his jar of ink. Upon Connor’s nod, he gets up and straightens his coat. “I’ll come with you, then. I could do with some fresh air.” He waits patiently for Connor to pull on his boots and fasten his weapons belt, hands clasped behind his back. Together, they climb the steps to the upper deck, and Haytham joins Connor at the helm. If they attract strange looks over their sudden, new-found coexistence, Haytham says nothing about it, and Connor pretends not to see it.

Over the next few days, they grow more comfortable around each other. Haytham’s mind seems mostly eased, or, if he still has reservations about their relationship (if it can be called that, at this stage), he has resolved not to think about it. He spends more time above decks, standing next to Connor at the helm, and while neither he nor Connor are fond or capable of small talk, their silence is amiable and comfortable, and after a day or two, Connor feels confident enough to throw a jesting remark Haytham’s way when Haytham makes to move below decks to rest his legs. Haytham takes it in good humour and simply rolls his eyes as he leaves, which Connor takes to mean that they have made progress.

His assumption is confirmed when, one night, as he is stooping to remove his boots so he can catch some sleep, Haytham’s voice stops him. “Connor.” Connor looks back at him; Haytham is in the process of undoing his first boot, but he has paused in favour of looking at Connor. When he catches Connor’s eye, he sighs. “Just come here, that hammock must be murder.”

Connor frowns. “Are you sure?”

Haytham fixes him with a look. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t sure. Now quit dawdling and come here.” He resumes undoing his boots and sets them aside. Cautiously, Connor approaches the bed. When Haytham merely moves over to make room for him and turns onto his side, he relaxes. It will be a tight fit, but it will be better than the hammock. That aside—he can admit to himself that he would not mind being closer to Haytham.

It must show on his face or translate to his movements, for when he lies down on the cot (on his side, facing the door, so he is immediately aware of potential intruders) and bids Haytham good night, his father huffs out an amused laugh.

“Just go to sleep, you daft child,” he says, not unkindly, and settles against the mattress. Connor bristles at the admonishment, gentle as it is, but says nothing of it. Instead, he closes his eyes and allows himself a few moments to bask in the sensation of having Haytham so close to him. In the end, he falls asleep to the sound of his life mate’s breathing.

 

*          *          *

 

Within the span of a few days, the foreignness of their relationship starts to wear off. Where it was strange to go to sleep and wake up next to Haytham, see his face relaxed in slumber, it has now become almost normal, though a small part of Connor is still amazed he is allowed to have this. He should worry at this contentment, because he knows, deep down, that it never lasts, but instead, he allows himself to bask in it. He has spent his life worrying and thinking about what ifs. He can allow himself to enjoy the moment, this time.

Still, for all that he and Haytham are more comfortable with each other now than they have ever been in the past, they are still cautious and unsure about some things. Despite the fact that the pull towards Haytham becomes easier and easier to ignore the longer they share the same space and the constant need to touch his life mate fades to a quiet simmer, it still flares on occasion, usually when they are kissing. There is more touching involved, now, and while Connor enjoys it, immensely so, it does lead to... difficulties.

Haytham is rarely the one to initiate contact, and both prefer their space in the cot (what little they can have, at any rate), but whenever Connor presses a testing kiss to Haytham’s lips, Haytham does not push him away. Connor is confident enough by now to press closer against him, and Haytham lets him, and he definitely grows interested after a time, but normally, he moves away before it can progress any further. Usually, Connor lets him, not sure whether he is merely curious or actually wants to continue. About three days before they are expected to dock in New York, however, he takes hold of Haytham’s shirt to prevent him from moving away. Haytham frowns at him, but remains where he is.

Connor takes a breath and looks at him. “Can we continue?”

Something flashes in Haytham’s eyes; they seem darker now than they were a moment ago. Still, he remains still, does not even move his hand from where it rests on Connor’s hip, and his voice is as controlled as it usually is when he asks, “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Connor chances to press closer, shift his hips a little, just to feel Haytham hard against him and just to watch his composure shatter for the briefest moment. When Haytham looks at him warningly, he stills and adds belatedly, “If you want,” because he has no intention of pushing Haytham into anything, especially if it is this. If Haytham still wishes to keep his distance, Connor will let him.

Haytham studies him. His gaze is searching, again, like it was several days ago. Connor keeps looking at him. Eventually, Haytham’s gaze drops to where his hand is resting on Connor’s hip; the constant pressure of touch turns into a light, almost absent caress. “Very well,” Haytham says finally. His fingers dip under Connor’s shirt, touch the skin of his back, and Connor shivers in response. While it is not the first time Haytham has touched his skin, the sensation is still foreign enough to make him react to even the smallest amount of it. In response, he seeks Haytham’s lips and kisses him deeply; Haytham hums into his mouth and wraps an arm around him to pull him closer.

At some point, Haytham rolls his hips just slightly, but the movement is enough for Connor to gasp softly against his lips. He has touched himself before, but to feel Haytham’s hardness against his own, to know that Haytham wants this as much as he does, is exhilarating and so much better than anything he could have possibly done to himself.

Still, as much as he wants it, he grows nervous when Haytham’s hands start to undo his breeches. He has imagined this moment, of course—when he was younger, after first seeing Haytham in Boston, it had been a fantasy he had later discarded almost angrily, because he was still so idealistic then, and misjudged Haytham’s personality completely; later, after Bridewell, he had dared to think on it again, had thought much about Haytham’s voice whispering profane things to him; and in the past few days, he considered the possibility rather than the actual act, shying away from thinking too long and hard on what it would feel like for fear of Haytham or anyone else catching on. He thinks he has imagined countless versions of this moment, all of which he had liked, but now that it is actually here, he cannot keep still.

Haytham notices his squirming, of course, and looks up at him. “What is it?” His hands have stilled, for which Connor is grateful—it allows him to gather his thoughts.

“I have never...” He trails off, uncomfortable. Haytham is much older than he is, has had more chance to gain experience in this territory, and while Connor would rather admit to a lack of experience here than in any other area, it is still embarrassing, considering Haytham’s annoying habit to treat him like a child.

But Haytham does not mock; he merely hums. “I didn’t imagine that you had,” he says, glances up at Connor’s flushed face. His expression softens. “Don’t worry, I wasn’t planning on starting out with that, especially not here. I’d prefer you not having to answer questions in the morning.”

Connor frowns. “Then what—”

Haytham cuts him off with a look before he turns his attention back to undoing Connor’s breeches. “Wait and see,” he says, chuckling when he looks up to find Connor glaring at him. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

Initially, Connor wants him to be more clear, so that he knows what he can expect, but a few moments later, Haytham wraps his hand around his cock and Connor thanks whatever spirit is listening that he has grown up in a close-knit community and spent the rest of his youth in a manor with thin walls, because it allows him to be quiet now, though he holds onto Haytham’s sleeve tightly as he rolls his hips into the movement of Haytham’s hand. Haytham watches his face closely, as much as Connor tries to avoid his gaze, as if he is learning; his hand shifts its position, tightens its hold, slows and speeds up its strokes, as if he is trying to determine what affects him the most, and Connor is not sure what brings him closer to the edge—Haytham’s hand or his undivided attention.

Just as he feels his climax approaching and he cannot keep his eyes open any longer, Haytham stills his movement and stops touching him, and Connor opens his eyes indignantly, about to ask him what he thinks he is doing, but the words die on his tongue as he watches Haytham undo his own breeches. Connor licks his lips and sits up, intent on touching him, but Haytham presses him into the mattress and kisses him while he slots their hips together.

Even though he has never been vocal, Connor moans into their kiss and wraps his arms around Haytham’s shoulders to keep him close. The feeling of Haytham’s cock against his own is something he could never have prepared himself for and it catches him off guard, makes him arch into every single touch until Haytham stills the movements of his hips by wrapping his hand around the both of them and stroking them at a pace that leaves Connor no room to catch his breath. Connor closes his eyes because he cannot possibly keep them open and presses his forehead against Haytham’s shoulder to ground himself, even while he tries to meet the movement of Haytham’s hand with his hips.

This is so much more than anything he has ever done to himself. It is not just that Haytham’s hand feels different, because they both have calluses form handling swords and guns, even if there is no way Connor could ever mistake Haytham’s hand for his own; it is simply that he has no control over the strokes, the pace and grip. Haytham could keep him on the edge for hours if he wished and, short of resorting to violence, there would be nothing that Connor could do about it. The thought is as exhilarating as it is frightening (Connor is not yet sure which of the two is stronger) and serves to steal his breath even further. It is all he can do to hold onto Haytham’s shoulders.

Just as he starts to actually struggle to breathe, Haytham bites down lightly on his throat, not hard enough to leave a lasting mark but hard enough to make himself felt, and Connor stifles a groan as he comes, spilling over Haytham’s hand. Haytham thrusts into the circle of his fist a few more times before he spills, as well, and stills.

For a few moment, they do not move, catching their breaths. Connor tries flexing his muscles to see whether he has regained control over them yet and watches, slightly miffed, as Haytham uses his shirt tails to clean them up.

“That shirt was ruined anyway,” Haytham says, presumably at the look on his face, as he rolls away and refastens his breeches. “Wear a new one tomorrow.” Connor fixes him with a look he does not see as he turns his back without another word, apparently having decided that nothing more needs to be said. Silent, Connor lifts his hips to pull up his breeches and fastens them, ignoring Haytham’s soft sound of irritation when one of his elbows presses into his back.

Initially, Connor turns his back to his father and resolves to go to sleep, but Haytham’s sudden silence irks him. After a few minutes, he turns onto his other side, watches the ride and fall of Haytham’s shoulder. He seems calm and at ease, but he still will not face Connor as he sleeps, even after what they have just done, and he has only said the bare minimum to Connor before he turned his back. Considering his reaction after their kiss on Church’s ship, this might be something Connor needs to make sure, before there is another week’s worth of silence between them.

So he takes a breath to steady himself, then says carefully, “Father?”

Haytham turns his head to look at him, and while there is still that spark of irritation in his eyes at Connor calling him that in these circumstances (Connor tried, he did, but ‘Haytham’ does not sit right on his tongue) he merely says, “What is it?”

“You do not regret it, do you?”

Haytham sighs and turns his back to him again. “For heaven’s sake, boy, do you think I would have allowed it to come this far if I even suspected I would come to regret it? Stop worrying about it and go to sleep. I’d like to get back to New York in one piece, if that’s in any way possible.” When Connor does not move and says nothing in response, he turns onto his other side with a small grunt of effort and catches Connor’s mouth in a brief kiss. “I promise you I won’t regret it. Will you stop thinking of inane things now and just go to sleep?”

Something unfurls in Connor’s chest; he nods. Haytham hums softly and settles against the mattress, still facing Connor—either because turning again is too much of an effort or as a kindness towards him, Connor does not know. He thinks it might be a combination of both when Haytham grumbles, “I hope I won’t have to put you at ease every time we do this. You’re a grown man, for God’s sake.”

Despite the fact that he knows Haytham did not mean to amuse him, he smiles. “Yes, Father.” He settles down and closes his eyes. “Good night.”

Haytham sighs. “Yes, yes.” After a few moments, though, he adds, “Good night.”

 

*          *          *

 

By the time they dock in New York, they have almost grown comfortable with each other. Haytham still jabs at Connor’s captaining skills, especially after a sudden evasive move to avoid collision with a British merchant ship that leaves the deck flooded for the better part of an hour, though there is less bite in his jibes than there is tease. Connor, in turn, mocks Haytham’s age and the small discomforts that go with it. While Haytham is still agile for his age—Connor has seen him scale buildings, after all—he has difficulty standing for hours on end, and he is out of breath sooner than Connor thinks he is used to. (He thinks that at some point, he will be more concerned about Haytham’s age, about what it means, the amount of years they have, but for now, it is still far-off enough not to worry about it.)

Haytham is the first one to set foot on land, with Connor following once he has set the crew to work with unloading the supplies. As he approaches, Haytham turns to him. For a few moments, neither of them says anything. There is so much he must do now. He must ride to Valley Forge and tell Washington of the supplies, arrange a way for them to be brought to the troops; he should return to the homestead and see how the property is doing, apologise to Achilles for the harsh words he said before leaving.

But at the same time, there is his father. He is not yet sure whether he is comfortable with parting ways here, but there is little else he can do; he wants to keep Haytham as far away from Washington as he possibly can, for the time being, at least, until he has convinced Haytham Washington is a necessity in this Revolution. They must part ways here, at least for now, but he is reluctant to do so.

His indecisiveness must show on his face, since Haytham rolls his eyes, though a fond smile plays around his lips. “Go tend to your business. Find me after.” He clasps his hands behind his back. “I think we have a common interest in getting rid of the Loyalists, wouldn’t you agree?”

Rattled by the warm glow in his chest at the realisation that Haytham wants him around, Connor can only nod.

“Excellent. I’ll be expecting you, then.” With a secretive little smile, Haytham turns and walks in the direction of Fort George. Connor watches him go, then walks back to the _Aquila_ to help unload the supplies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do you write sex without having to get up and walk off your embarrassment every five words.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay, I had some stuff to take care of at work. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

If he ever looks back on his life and regrets his decisions, Haytham can at least take comfort in the knowledge that he has tried. Even after their disastrous kiss in the hold of Church’s ship, he had tried to keep his distance in an attempt at salvaging what little there remained of their familial ties, had tried to ignore the pull in his chest, had made sure he was fast asleep (or at least pretending to be so) by the time Connor came down to his cabin to rest. But Connor had cornered him anyway, demanded answers, demanded change, made it plain that he valued their potential bond more than their play-acting at father and son. “Why should it matter what we are and what I call you when you want it and I want it?” he said.

At the time, Haytham had been tired and off guard because of a lack of sleep, and it had seemed easier to just give in to Connor’s demands, simply let their bond or whatever it was that drove him bring him closer to Connor, let himself touch, taste. There was no earth shattering retribution after, no sense of impending doom—simply him and Connor, sharing the same space, and the contented glow of finally getting what he had wanted ever since he first realised the importance of a soul mate. Addle-brained as he was, there was no sudden disgust, no realisation of a committed wrong. He simply felt... good. Content.

After Connor had moved to his hammock and, presumably, drifted off to sleep, Haytham stared up at the cabin ceiling and thought for a long time about what this meant. As content as he felt and as much as he would like a repeat of this kiss (better than the first, less strained in its aftermath) there was still that lingering sense of reluctance, a voice in the back of his mind that sounded suspiciously like his father telling him he should stop this, that this was not the relationship he should want to pursue with his son. He only had his own father until he was ten; he should know what it was like not to have him around, and strive to be the father Connor needed.

But at the same time, to insist on being his father now, when he hadn’t been there to see him grow up, when he hadn’t there to take care of him after Ziio died, wouldn’t accomplish anything. As much as Connor insisted on calling him ‘Father’ even at the most inopportune moments, Haytham doubted the boy would actually accept him as such at the cost of... what just happened.

And this irksome soul mate bond between them was very hard to ignore.

He reassured himself with the knowledge that Connor wanted this. Connor sought to initiate this, Connor was the one to make this a topic for discussion. He wasn’t forcing the boy into anything. They were both adults, they had both consented. Aside from the glaringly obvious familial relation, there was nothing wrong with them.

As much as he hated Benjamin Church for betraying the Order so easily, one thing he had said had stuck to Haytham’s mind: “There is no single path through life that’s right and fair and does no harm.” Giving into the madness of their being soul mates would not be morally sound, and he might very well still meet his reckoning for it, but hurting Connor yet again by insisting they shouldn’t, after he had already given in twice, would cause more harm than it would mend.

This would depend on Connor, he decided. As long as Connor wanted it, he would oblige; as soon as Connor gave the slightest hint that he was dissatisfied with their situation, as soon as he began to have second thoughts, that would be that. Haytham would pull back and allow Connor to go on his way. Until that time, giving in would be easier. So he does.

 

*          *          *

 

He and Connor part ways in New York. It’s painfully obvious the lad has business to attend to, likely to do with getting the supplies they’d taken from Church back to Washington’s troops (he didn’t breach the topic of Washington again, seeing as how eager Connor had been to come to the man’s defence during their discussion on the rooftop a month ago), but he lingers regardless, his indecision undoubtedly fuelled by the same bond that made Haytham allow him back into the cot every night, even though he had barely slept as a result. Taking the decision from his hands, he sends the boy off with the promise that they will meet again, and starts his walk back to his quarters. He isn’t quite sure whether he left that promise with Connor to quiet the boy’s mind or his own.

He meets with Charles shortly after his return, of course, to discuss the business with Church. Charles asks him about the details, where he found Church that he was gone for a month to get to him, and while Haytham is a good liar, it simply seems not worth the effort to keep the information from Charles.

He watches Charles carefully as he says, “I tracked him to Martinique.” When Charles frowns, he goes on, “Connor lent me gracious use of his ship.”

Charles is silent for a total of five seconds, confusion drawn into his face, before he sputters, “The Assassin?”

“Yes,” Haytham says slowly, putting down his pen and folding his hands on his desk. Charles is still seated on the chair on the other side of the desk, but his shoulders have tensed and there is a strange glint in his eyes that Haytham has trouble pinning down. On any other person, he would call it distrust, but Charles has always stood by him and followed his instructions to the letter, without complaint of question.

Well. Not _always_. There is still that matter with his being at Ziio’s village when he had clear orders not to be.

“I thought we were looking to remove the Assassins from the colonies,” Charles says, accusingly. “And now you’re working together with one of them on something that should have been our mission.” Haytham doesn’t question what he means by ‘our’; he will continue to believe he means the Order. Any other meaning would be a reflection of jealousy and that, frankly, is something he can’t deal with at the moment, not when he has more pressing matters to address.

He gets up and walks to the windows, looks out at the civilians and soldiers busying themselves outside, hands clasped behind his back. He can hear Charles shift in his chair and knows there is something else he wants to say. A moment later, he is proven correct as Charles says, “That boy was supposed to die at the gallows two years ago. He is what’s standing between us and Washington and you’re working together with him. I’m trying to understand your reasoning, Haytham, but this is simply—”

“The boy is my son, Charles,” Haytham interrupts him. He rubs at this left wrist and glances back at Charles over his shoulder. “You must admit the resemblance is uncanny.”

(He isn’t quite sure why he is sharing this information, what he is trying to achieve. Perhaps he merely wants to explain why he would ally himself with this particular Assassin; perhaps he is trying to make amends for his absence from Connor’s life for so long. Perhaps he hopes that if he tells him, Charles will think twice before laying a hand on Connor.)

Charles’ mouth tightens. “Yours and that Mohawk woman.”

Haytham resists rolling his eyes because Charles’ resentment of Ziio is not new, if no less tiring for it. “Honestly, Charles, I don’t see what your problem is when it comes to her, God knows you married one.”

“In order that we might easier gain their land, yes,” Charles says, obviously testily now.

Haytham knows for a fact that that was decidedly _not_ the reason why Charles married her (he hasn’t seen Charles’ wrist, but he has seen hers at the wedding) but he hasn’t the patience to argue, so he waves a dismissive hand. “Be that as it may.” He turns his back to the window so he can look at Charles properly. “I’m curious about something. Apparently, ‘my Mohawk woman’ died in a fire eighteen years ago. Now, what interests me is that you were seen there right before it happened, even while I clearly recall telling you that we were to abandon the search for the precursor site.” He pauses. “Unless that’s not why you were there.”

From the way Charles shifts forward as if he wants to get up, Haytham knows that whatever he will say next is the truth.

“We were there for the precursor site only,” Charles says, his eyes flashing with indignation, and Haytham feels a small sense of guilt at distrusting his friend so, but then Charles had ignored his orders. “You vanish for years,” he goes on, “off to God knows where, and when you return, you tell us we should abandon the entire business with the precursor site and the only reason you give us is that we have more important things to worry about.” He looks at Haytham; Haytham meets his gaze without moving. “Before you left, you pursued the precursor site with the most fervour out of all of us. Can you understand why we thought it strange you had no interest in it when you returned?”

Haytham averts his gaze to the window. He never told anyone that he didn’t want to concern himself further with the Those Who Came Before because of Reginald’s treachery, because of everything that happened in Damascus and France. He never told anyone it was a combination of being lied to for most of his life, of Jenny’s withdrawal and her harsh judgment of his life choices, of Holden’s capture, torture, and eventual suicide. And because further investigation of the amulet could potentially harm his soul mate. He has never told anyone; he will not tell Charles now.

“We thought it had to do with her,” says Charles.

The mere suggestion makes Haytham bristle, perhaps because it very well could have. He casts a warning look over his shoulder. “Then rest assured that it didn’t.” Upon Charles’ unwavering focus, he sighs. “While I was away some... events made me reconsider the importance of the precursor site which had nothing to do with Ziio and everything with—” He pauses, chooses his words carefully. “Personal vendettas. I haven’t told anyone the details and I can’t tell anyone, not even you.”

The admission seems to calm Charles somewhat; he sits back further in his chair, waits patiently for Haytham to step away from the window. Haytham leans his hands on the desk. “Can you give me your word that you were not, in any way, involved with the burning of her village?”

Charles meets his gaze. “I swear it.” He frowns. “Why would you suspect such a thing?”

Haytham sighs and straightens, waves a hand. “Connor saw you before his village burned, and believed you had started the fire. It’s the sole reason he joined the Brotherhood, apparently.”

Charles looks at him with the onset of horror on his face. “Then tell him it isn’t so.”

“I tried,” Haytham says with a shake of his head, “he won’t take my word for it.” Which, now that he thinks on it, bothers him; he can grudgingly accept Connor has a different world view than he has, considering his upbringing, but what does irk him is that Connor won’t take his word on matters that really have nothing to do with the Assassin-Templar conflict. It should not be possible, _especially_ because of their soul mate bond, for Connor to distrust him this much on matters like this. Frowning, he rubs at his wrist. Perhaps he should address this, the next time he sees Connor.

He drops his hands when Charles clears his throat, instead clasping them behind his back. “He won’t get to you,” he says in what he hopes is reassurance. “I like to think I have some leverage over him, at least enough to keep him away.” Before Charles can start a discussion about that, he asks, “Was there anything else about Church?”

Charles, wisely, shakes his head, and they call their meeting to an end. Haytham watches him leave through the window and wonders whether he’s doing right by the right persons.

 

*          *          *

 

Connor doesn’t return for months, and Haytham finally begins to understand why the boy would insist on his giving in, because this bond is a _pesky_ thing. Connor’s absence is bearable for all but two weeks; after that, he becomes more irritable and impatient, unable to bear another’s company for extended stretches of time. Charles suffers the most for it—Haytham would apologise if he could in any way explain the source of his annoyance without making Charles think he has taken complete leave of his senses. Since he can’t, he tries to minimise their contact as much as possible, which only gets him so far since he and Charles are the only ones left of their former leading circle, and thus need to discuss the future of the Order. Charles never remarks on Haytham’s increasingly curt behaviour, for which Haytham is grateful, even if it does nothing to improve his mood.

When Connor hasn’t returned after a month, his mind starts wandering.

He wonders where the boy is. He hasn’t heard of any from the Order vanishing, hasn’t been informed of Templar corpses being found, has heard nothing of any Loyalist forts being handed over to Patriot troops. Put simply, Connor has vanished from the face of the earth. Of course, knowing Connor, there are only be so many places he can be, the most likely of which is Davenport homestead, to which he has no objections. He has a grudging respect for Davenport, after all, because he has seen the product of the man’s efforts—Connor has turned out a fine Assassin, if rash and unrefined. He can tolerate the boy being at Davenport homestead, helping out, because this is something he can understand—the old man is his mentor, after all.

But the other alternative is Washington and that, frankly, is something he doesn’t want to think on for too long, because it only serves to remind him that his soul mate would rather ally himself with one of his—well, if not enemies, then at the very least opponents. He can’t understand how Connor can place his trust in a man who will do nothing for him once the British are gone, who did nothing to save him at the gallows.

More importantly, he can’t understand how Connor can defy him where Washington is concerned. His attitude is simply wrong; he should not be able to place so much trust in the man Haytham knows to be incapable, choose _him_ over Haytham’s allies. Just as it irks him that Connor refused to believe Charles had nothing to do with Ziio’s death, it makes him restless and irritated to think Connor would rather aid Washington than his soul mate and his ideals.

_This_ is a matter he needs to address; Connor’s attitude towards Charles, he can rectify later. But his association with Washington must cease this instant.

He isn’t proud that he calls in Charles and asks him who gave the orders to burn Ziio’s village, most certainly isn’t proud of the satisfaction he feels when suspicions he has harboured for a while are confirmed: Washington gave the order. Connor’s precious commander is the one who is ultimately responsible for Ziio’s death, for Connor’s lust for vengeance towards Charles and the Templar Order. This is the tool he was looking for. This will tear Connor from Washington’s side, and if it will not convince the boy to at least consider Haytham’s side of things, it will, perhaps, at least cause him to cease his quest to rid the world of every single Templar.

Even while Connor’s absence makes him restless, the knowledge that he holds the key to ridding himself of his competition (he isn’t sure when he started thinking of Washington as competition rather than an obstacle, but it isn’t something he wants to look at too closely) puts him somewhat at ease. He thanks Charles with the first genuine smile he has produced in weeks and returns to his correspondence.

 

*          *          *

 

He bides his time to relate the news. When he and Connor meet again after three months, it’s too soon, and they have other things on their mind. They argue, of course, but he isn’t too concerned about it; he fully expects their quarrels to lessen substantially as soon as he tells the boy of the true identity of his mother’s murderer. So he allows Connor’s disbelief and mounting anger at his treatment of the British commanders, allows him his sulky silence on the way to Valley Forge. Since they’re supposed to be meeting Washington there, he hopes to be done with the entire business before the end of the day, if he can find an opening to slip in the information. What better way to unmask Washington than in the man’s presence.

His opportunity presents itself even more amply than he could have hoped for, as he spots a letter on the table while Connor tells Washington that the British are marching on New York. The letter is frank and all business and bears Washington’s signature and seal—orders. Haytham scans the letter until he understands that it’s an order to burn what remains of Connor’s village and neuter the land.

He can keep a smile off his face as he turns towards Connor and holds up the letter, but he can’t suppress a triumphant note in his voice as he relates the information to Connor, especially when Washington grows defensive. Haytham won’t let him explain himself; he immediately charges on, forces him to admit to the attack that killed Ziio. He takes perhaps too great of a risk in slandering Washington in his presence, especially as surrounded by Washington’s soldiers as they are, but he has to make sure Connor understands the gravity of the situation, that he despises Washington enough to never want to see him again, much less aid him.

Washington rounds on him; Haytham almost thinks they will come to blows, but Connor interrupts them. “Enough! Who did what and why must wait. My people come first.”

Haytham makes the mistake of considering it an invitation. He expected Connor to lean more towards him once he were to discover Washington’s true face, to get Washington out of his sight as quickly as he could and seek closer contact with his soul mate, the only one whose word should matter to him.

He has miscalculated.

“No!” Connor snaps, points at him angrily. “You and I are finished.”

“Son—” he tries, for lack of another term to use—what he would like to do is appeal to Connor as his soul mate, but how can he, when Washington is standing right there, when they aren’t in the safe enclosure of Connor’s captain’s cabin. He half-hopes that the address will make Connor pause, seeing as how sparingly Haytham is in using it, especially after their trip to Martinique.

Once again, his hope is futile; Connor simply scoffs. “Do you think me so soft, that by calling me son I might change my mind? How long did you sit on this information, or am I to believe you discovered it now? My mother’s blood may stain another’s hands, but Charles Lee is no less a monster and all he does, he does by _your_ command.”

Haytham feels a momentary stab of guilt, because Connor’s words ring closer to home than he would like; he may have suggested to Charles that he create some unrest between the Patriots and the natives, like they did with Boston in ‘70. It is, however, quickly washed away by an unsettling panic low in his stomach that Connor is severing ties with him, that he must get through to him by any means or whatever it is they have, this thing he only got to enjoy on the _Aquila_ , will slip through his fingers. He takes a step towards Connor, almost extends a hand, but Connor whirls around in anger, addresses both him and Washington, and leaves them behind in the stunned silence of his threat, gets back on his horse and rides off to save his village.

It takes a while before Haytham is able to move—longer than he would like. Even when he can move, he lingers at Valley Forge, with the sole purpose of waiting for news, or perhaps for Connor’s return, as ridiculous as it is to wait for the latter, since he knows very well Connor won’t return to him, not after storming away in such a fury, not after telling him they are finished when he spent over two weeks convincing him to give in to their bond.

Still, he lingers, with a fool’s hope. Connor does not return, though a messenger does. Haytham halts by Washington’s tent to hear him relaying the information that the natives who were supposed to meet the British never arrived, and what should be done now with the village.

Washington hesitates. Haytham looks at him intently, not saying anything. Finally, the commander looks away and orders his men to pull back. Without a word, Haytham turns and walks back to his horse, and departs for New York.

 

*          *          *

 

For three years, he sees nothing of Connor, though he hears of him plenty—the odd kill here and there, the forts handed over to the Patriots, convoys attacked. His absence is not easier to bear than the last time, but he isn’t as restless—likely because this feeling in his stomach that he associated with their bond has realised Connor won’t be coming back. He is more agreeable towards those around him, at any rate, because he is no longer waiting.

Conversely, Charles grows increasingly restless at his side, and Haytham understands why perfectly well. With each victory, Connor is inching closer and closer to him. Charles is—or was—a military man with sufficient training, but so was John, and he was the second one to die. Charles knows as well as Haytham that if Connor makes an actual effort at chasing him down, he will lose.

Needless to say, with the fear of Connor hovering over Charles’ head, their friendship doesn’t exactly flourish.

Charles is aware of who Connor is, that he is Haytham and Ziio’s son, and on some days, Haytham thinks Charles blames him for siring the man who now wants him dead. He has never said it aloud, wouldn’t dare to, for as much as he blames Haytham, he still respects him, but then he doesn’t have to. His eyes say it all.

As long as he hasn’t spoken the words, though, Haytham will pretend he doesn’t know.

 

*          *          *

 

When the first signs of a direct attack on Fort George begin to show, he is fifty-five, and feeling every single one of his years. He isn’t sure whether he is only now noticing little pains and aches in his wrists and other joints where he only noticed a heaviness in his legs if he stood for too long before, or whether they are more prominent with the prospect of what he must do.

Across the room, Charles is not quite panicking, but Haytham thinks it’s only because he’s so good at suppressing the signs. It does show, however, in his agitated announcement that Connor would be nearby, in his finally expressing that he does blame Haytham for Connor’s existence and subsequent alliance with the Assassins. He is surprised when the discussion of him fathering an Assassin turns to Charles accusing him of divided loyalties, of indifference towards the Order, of _doubt_.

There is nothing he can say to change Charles’ mind, for one because Charles’ panic would not allow him to see reason, and, more importantly, because he is right. In his youth, he dreamed of uniting the Assassins and the Templars, after all, a hope he had, like all others, discarded for many years, but dared to cherish again in the short interval he and Connor were closer than on speaking terms. He has actively sabotaged the Order’s plans in order to save an Assassin, and while he may not really have been trying to keep Connor from harm in the past three years, he didn’t try to stop him from edging closer and closer towards Charles, from disrupting more and more of the Order.

He has nothing to say in his defence, so he acknowledges Charles’ accusations with a nod of his head and continues to look outside, watches the ships, one of which would likely carry Connor, sail closer, listens to Charles’ frantic pacing.

Calmly, he gets up from the desk. He has been thinking about this moment for a long time, especially during the past year, and he has made his decision long ago.

Connor cannot get to Charles. He isn’t foolish enough to think he can bring himself to kill Connor; the pull in his stomach is too strong for it. He can, however, buy Charles enough time to get away and go into hiding.

When he tells Charles to retreat and leave Connor to him, Charles seems almost indignant. “Don’t be foolish, Haytham,” he says, almost snaps, and gestures. “If we leave now, we can be gone long before he even gets here.”

“And then what? He would catch up to us without someone to deter him.” He shakes his head. “I must stay behind. Perhaps I still have a little bit of leverage.” He smiles, but it feels fake even as he does so; from the way Charles doesn’t seem convinced, he surmises it must look fake, too. “There is no danger for me,” he says in an attempt at reassuring Charles; he isn’t sure whether or not he’s lying. He’s prepared for it to be a lie. He pauses, pulls off the amulet from around his neck, presses it into Charles’ unwilling hand. “Still, I’d rather you take this with you.”

Charles extends his hand as if he wants to give it back to him. “If there’s no danger, you’re perfectly capable of keeping it out of his hands yourself,” he says. His voice betrays he is grasping at straws; his eyes won’t stop moving towards the windows, where the sounds of cannon filter into the room. His hands are shaking.

Haytham closes Charles’ hand around the amulet. “I’m almost an old man, Charles. Let’s err on the side of caution, shall we?” He looks towards the window. “Now go, or you’ll still be here when he arrives.”

Charles looks at him as if he will protest again, but in the end, he sets his jaw and walks to the door. Only there does he turn and look back at Haytham. “You have been a good Grand Master, Haytham,” he says, “and I’m sorry if you ever thought I felt otherwise.”

Haytham’s smile doesn’t feel strained, but it doesn’t sit right around his mouth, either. “And I’m sorry for giving you cause to.”

As he watches Charles leave, he feels, knows, that this is the last time he will see him. Whatever the outcome of his impending confrontation with Connor, he won’t see Charles alive again. What he feels isn’t quite guilt, but rather a tender sadness that he couldn’t do more to protect his friend. He will buy him as much time as he can, but he knows that Connor is determined enough for it not to matter; whether today, tomorrow, or in ten years, Connor will get his hands on Charles. Still, Haytham will do his utmost to postpone that moment for as long as possible. It’s the least he owes this infant nation, the least he owes the Order—the least he owes Charles.

He walks over to the window at the front of the house and looks out on the courtyard, hands clasped behind his back. He feels deceptively calm as he watches Connor stagger onto the courtyard. He straightens his coat and walks out, closing the door to his lodgings behind him for a final time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Writing this chapter gave me all the sads.
> 
> 2) _“You vanish for years,” he goes on, “off to God knows where, and when you return, you tell us we should abandon the entire business with the precursor site and the only reason you give us is that we have more important things to worry about.” He looks at Haytham; Haytham meets his gaze without moving. “Before you left, you pursued the precursor site with the most fervour out of all of us. Can you understand why we thought it strange you had no interest in it when you returned?”_  
>  Yes, so, I know that the Templars do in fact still look for Precursor artefacts even after Haytham returns from France, and in Rogue’s timeline, they’re still at that when Ziio dies. But considering Haytham tells Connor he had already told Charles and the others to stop looking when Connor’s village burns, something doesn’t add up. I chose to keep ACIII’s/Forsaken’s timeline instead of trying to patch in Rogue because it would just be awkward and I thought finding out about Reginald’s role in Edward’s death and Jenny’s disappearance was a good cause of Haytham to stop looking into the Precursor site. So please pretend like you don’t know Rogue exists.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh I'm so sorry for the delay! Research assignment decided to be a bitch this afternoon and I completely forgot I still had to update today.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

After returning the supplies to Washington, Connor contemplates returning to New York if only for a little while, just so he can see how Haytham is doing and, perhaps, spend one night with him so he can sleep well. Not sleeping as well without Haytham as he did with him is something he had not anticipated, and does not particularly like. It takes him longer to stop twisting and turning and fall asleep, and he wakes earlier than usual, not feeling rested at all. He dislikes it, this dependency on another man, even if (especially if?) that man is his father.

So he forces back the urge to return to New York, sets course instead for the Homestead. He intends to go to the manor first, apologise to Achilles, but he is held up by Norris and Myriam and their wedding announcement which, granted, does take his mind off Haytham for a good while. He feels honoured in a way he has rarely felt when Father Timothy asks him, on behalf of the bride and groom, to give Myriam away (which is a custom he has difficulty understanding, as Myriam is her own woman, no man’s possession to keep or give away, but he understands the importance attached to the custom). He promises to help with the wedding preparations after he returns from Achilles.

The talk with Achilles is one he dreads, and has dreaded ever since he calmed down, only hours after leaving the Homestead in the first place. He is aware that he acts on his emotions and that he can lose control of them in some situations, and while he is neither proud nor ashamed of it, it does pain him that he spoke so harshly where he had no right to. Achilles took him in and trained him when he had nothing to offer in return, made him into the man he is now. Apologising is something that should come easy now, and he wants to—but still he lingers outside of Achilles’ room, steeling himself for what is to come.

The actual apology is easier than he thought, mostly because Achilles concedes that he was right to some extent. Connor’s initial urge is to correct him when he states that the Templars gained so much control through his negligence, but another thought pushes its way to the front of his mind—here he has an opportunity to convince Achilles that the Templars and Assassins can coexist, perhaps even cooperate.

Achilles, as Connor should have guessed, does not take well to the idea, though he does not seem to get angry. Still, there is obvious disappointment in his voice when he says, “You’ve met your father, haven’t you,” like it is a statement instead of a question. His tone betrays that he has been anticipating the possibility of Connor being taken in by Haytham’s personality and powers of persuasion for a long time, but that he had the hope that Connor would be better than that, only to be proven wrong. It makes Connor lower his eyes and turn away Achilles cannot see the lie on his face.

“I do not claim to trust the man, or even like him,” he responds, trying to breathe around the clench in his chest as he turns back to face Achilles. “But I would be remiss to ignore this opportunity.” His hand feels for his bracer, to make sure it is still attached properly, that it will not slip and reveal Haytham’s name on his wrist. Achilles would not welcome him back into the manor, much less trust him with matters of the Brotherhood, if he ever were to find out about the exact relation between him and Haytham. Better that he believe his insistence on cooperation stems from filial sentiments.

Achilles does not seem to catch the movement of his hand or, if he does, does not think it significant, as he is busy scrutinising Connor’s expression. “Haytham may listen,” he says finally, “but will he understand? And if he does, will he agree?”

This is leeway. Connor sees an opening to plant the idea in Achilles’ head that Haytham might be spared and takes it without the shame that he will be feeling three years later. “Even he must admit that we can achieve more together than we do alone.”

Achilles looks like he wants to argue, but does not. Instead, he sighs. “I assume you’re off to find him.” More disappointment. He even refuses to look at Connor. A part of Connor wants to get angry at Achilles’ continuance to be set in his methods, to not even consider a more peaceful option, but he remembers the painting he retrieved from New York, remembers all he has lost, remembers the Brotherhood he lost to the Templars.

He deflates. “Yes,” he says, with a fixed look on Achilles, as if he can make him understand regardless of all obstacles. “I ride for New York to see what might be done.” He walks to the door, then lingers. “I will stay for Myriam and Norris’ wedding. I will leave after.” Achilles says nothing, merely waves him off; Connor retreats to his room in silence.

 

*          *          *

 

Myriam and Norris marry a week later; Connor leaves for New York the next day without speaking to Achilles again. It is surprisingly easy to determine where Haytham is; though he cannot describe the feeling, he simply _knows_ when he gets closer to Haytham, when he has taken a wrong turn. He does not know the location until he is approaching it and sees Haytham speaking quietly to someone, likely one of his subordinates, but he knows which direction to go.

Haytham does not look up to see him approach, but he raises his hand to halt him in his tracks as if he has seen him, which gives Connor a warm sense of satisfaction – Haytham must have the same feeling that warns him of the approach of his life mate.

When he dismisses what Connor now surmises is his informant, his father steps towards him and heaves a sigh. “We’re so close to victory. A few more well-placed attacks and we’ll be able to put an end to this civil war and be rid of the Crown.” It stings that Haytham is all-business immediately, without even a kind word in greeting, but then kind words are rarely his way, and they are in public.

So instead of pointing it out, Connor meets his focus. “What do you intend?”

He frowns when Haytham gives him a look and responds almost sardonically, “Well, nothing at the moment, since we’re completely in the dark.” Something has been pulling at his father’s nerves, Connor realises. He has pent-up energy that he releases via acerbic comments and covert jabs (which is a tactic Connor is unfortunately all too familiar with from the month they spent together on the _Aquila_ ) to those outside of his immediate associates, and with brusque orders to his allies. The way he dismissed his contact should have been a warning sign, but, Connor is forced to admit, he was lost in the feeling of ease that had come over him once he had gotten closer to Haytham, and so did not see it.

“I thought the Templars had eyes and ears everywhere,” he says seriously, perhaps a little accusingly, to show his father that he is not impressed by his airy way of venting frustration which, in hindsight, is the wrong thing to do, as they are both reactive men and cannot but respond to one another’s hostility.

“Oh, we did,” Haytham says with a little smile that looks like the glint of a knife. “Until you started cutting them off.”

Connor grits his teeth and almost snaps back an irritated reply, but swallows it down. They will not get anywhere if they stand here arguing – there is work that needs to be done, and they need to cooperate in order to do it. So he breathes around the clench in his chest and says as mildly as he knows how, “Your contact said orders from above. It tells us exactly what we need to do: track down the Loyalist commanders.”

Haytham looks at him for a few moments, then inclines his head in silent agreement. Without speaking, they take to the streets, listen in on conversations between loyalist soldiers. Haytham is the one to catch wind of a meeting to be held in the burned-out district to the north and beckons Connor over. With a simple, “Follow me,” and the expectancy that Connor will follow, he takes off. Connor sets his jaw, still as irritated by Haytham’s tendency to order him around as he was at their first meeting, but follows. Haytham does lead him to the commanders’ meeting, so there is something to be said for that, at least.

Just when Connor has started to settle in for a long eavesdrop, his father sighs irritably. “They’re talking in circles. We’ll learn nothing, watching as we are,” he grumbles and gets to his feet.

“Then what do you propose we do, march in there and demand answers?” Connor mutters in response, eyes still trained on the commanders below, though he catches Haytham’s half-smile from the corner of his eye and immediately shifts his gaze to look at him.

“Well, yes.” Before Connor can stop him, he has dropped down, air assassinating two guards as he goes. A cry of “Ambush!” goes up from below; Connor wants to hit his head on one of the beams overhead. He thought his father was smarter than this.

“Connor? A little help here?” Haytham says as he pulls his sword, blocking an oncoming attack from a grenadier and stabbing his hidden blade into the stomach of another loyalist with only the barest backward glance. For a moment, Connor almost considers leaving him to fend for himself, since he was the one who wanted to do things this way, but his wrist burns reprovingly as soon as the thought crosses his mind and with a sigh, he engages his hidden blade and jumps down to join Haytham in the fight. It is not a real struggle, especially between the two of them, and soon, only the three commanders are left. Connor watches them for any attempts at escape while Haytham ties their wrists together.

He spots one of the commanders moving one second too late; by the time he can react, the man has already cast off his bindings and is out of reach. Haytham sighs. “Really?” he shakes his head, checks on the knots on the other two commanders. “Well, you’d best get after him, then,” he tells Connor. Another order, and one Connor does not mean to follow, not this time; his father needs to learn that the entire world does not wait at his beck and call, Connor least of all. But when he suggests that Haytham can chase the escaping commander down himself, Haytham merely gives him a look and insists that he do it.

“Why me?” Connor asks with narrowed eyes, feet slightly set apart.

“Because I said so,” Haytham says slowly, almost with mounting disbelief at Connor’s refusal to tend to his every whim. “Now go.” Connor narrows his eyes further, but takes off after the commander, if only because they will lose sight of him if they wait any longer. It does not sit well with him, though, this firm belief of Haytham’s that Connor will follow his every order. They will need to discuss this (among other things) after they have the information they need.

As it turns out, however, there is no time. By the time he delivers the commander to Haytham at Fort George, the other two of their prisoners are already dead, and Haytham makes quick work of the third after extracting information about the loyalists’ whereabouts. Connor watches in disbelief as his father cleans his hidden blade like there is nothing wrong about what he just did whatsoever.

They argue about that, of course; Connor tries, as he always does, to see a reason for Haytham’s blatant disregard of human life, and Haytham tries, as he always does, to refute his every argument, which only succeeds in angering Connor, especially when Haytham cuts their argument short.

“We don’t have time for this. You wished to warn Washington, did you not? Then we’d best be off,” Haytham says as if it’s a chore. “Or we could do the logical thing and tell someone actually competent.”

Connor levels a glare at him. “By which you mean Lee. No. We tell Washington.” He moves past Haytham and does not look back as he leaves Fort George to look for horses; at this point, he does not care if Haytham follows or not. He has not felt this kind of anger in a long time – it is not that grand, all things considered, but he has not felt like this about Haytham ever since their close encounter in the brewery. There have been small irritations, especially in their pursuit of the British commanders, but those, he could always brush aside; the way he feels about Haytham now resembles his feelings when they first made their truce, when Haytham killed Church’s cart driver.

If he is honest, the feeling frightens him a little. He has gotten used to feeling warm and content around Haytham, forgot what kind of man his father was when they were not enclosed in each other’s arms. It unsettles him perhaps as much as Haytham’s behaviour that he has forgotten about Haytham’s sharper edges, the darkness that drove his mother off and that surfaces every now and again, whenever they are actually working instead of being occupied with more personal matters. He has never been blind-sighted by anything before, not since he went to Achilles for training, but Haytham succeeds in dulling his senses simply by being near him. It makes him feel powerless, but it is not that feeling of powerlessness that frightens him most—it is fact that he misses it. He is frightened of being compromised, but at the same time, he feels _safe_. He has only felt safe a handful of times but being with Haytham is one of those rarities. Whenever they are not on a mission together, whenever they have opportunity to simply spend time together, Connor can forget what he has to do, can forget that Achilles distrusts Haytham and is disappointed in Connor’s choices, can forget that he may have to face Haytham as Grandmaster one day. He cherishes those days and fears the feelings they evoke will not return again.

Nevertheless, he is still angry at Haytham for being so careless with other people, so he refuses to speak to him as they find horses and leave New York. Haytham does not try to engage him in conversation; Connor is unsure if that makes him feel relieved or only serves to irritate him further.

 

*          *          *

 

The ride to Valley Forge reminds Connor of the ride to New York when he had just met Haytham so strongly that it sours his mood even further, so that his temper is as short as it has ever been by the time they arrive at Valley Forge. When Haytham brings up Lee _yet again_ , he cannot help himself—he rises to the bait and once again engages his father in discussion. Haytham is annoyingly exasperated throughout it all, commenting that the very things Connor opposes are merely symptoms of human weakness.

“Why do you think I keep on trying to show you the error of your way?” he asks, as if that has any relevance to the topic at hand. Connor is tired of it. He does not want to hear it.

“You have said much, yes,” he bites out, already turning towards Washington’s tent, “but you have _shown_ me _nothing_.” He does not wait for Haytham’s response, instead climbing the hill towards the Commander’s tent. He hears Haytham mutter something under his breath, but he does not stop to ask what. He does not want to know.

He forces his calm when he approaches Washington, keeps a respectful tone as he relates what the Loyalist commanders told them and tries to keep his focus on the Commander, even as he sees Haytham go over one of Washington’s letters from the corner of his eye. He resists the urge to glare; he knows Haytham thinks Washington incompetent and would do anything to put Lee in his place, but to invade his privacy like this?

Almost as soon as the thought crosses his mind, Haytham holds up the letter like a trophy. Connor is immediately wary when he is asked if he would like to know what the letter says, but makes no move to stop his father—the way Haytham phrased his question, he makes it seem like the letter contains something that pertains to Connor as well as Washington, and Connor finds himself wanting to know. Haytham does not wait for his answer, either way, and summarises the contents of the letter.

Connor feels himself grow cold at the mention of an attack on his village and looks at Washington for an explanation, hoping to hear it is a mistake, that he intends to rectify these faulty orders, but he gets nothing of the sort. What he gets is Washington trying to explain, to justify, his decision. He does not say he will recall his men. Connor takes an involuntary step back, looks at Washington as if he can will him to make Connor understand simply by a look alone. He feels—cold. Afraid.

But Haytham is not done.

“Not the first time either,” he says after a glance at Connor. He fixes Washington with a look. “Tell him what you did eighteen years ago.” Connor knows what Haytham is fishing for—or what he is simply confirming, perhaps. He only needs one glance at Washington to know Haytham has all the information he needs and that he is simply putting Washington on the spot. Lee did not burn his village and kill his mother. Washington did. The man he trusted, looked up to, took everything from him and would do it again.

Oddly, as much as the realisation pains him, there is one thought that unsettles him even more. Haytham knew, and waited until this moment to tell him. He is once again trying to manipulate Connor to his favour, to alienate him from his allies. The fact that he only now lets Connor know who really ordered his village to be burned is not an act of kindness; it is not a man looking out for his life mate. It is meant to dissuade him from going after Lee. It is meant to warm him to the Templar cause. It is manipulation, and Connor has tasted far too much of it during his acquaintance with his father.

His life mate should not manipulate him, but Haytham has done nothing but.

He is done.

Still, lingering sentiment makes him stop Haytham and Washington before they come to blows, even if it only extends so far. When Haytham makes to follow him, _presumes_ that he can, as if he has any authority over Connor, he snaps.

“No,” he growls, even as his wrist burns and his instincts scream at him to desist. “You and I are finished.”

Haytham visibly recoils at that, his mask broken open, leaving him vulnerable, but Connor refuses to pay it any heed. That he honestly shows his feelings now means nothing if it is the only time he has done so. So Connor responds to his (pleading?) address with curt, angry words he will most likely regret later, and turns to leave. He hears either Haytham or Washington shift as if to follow him and turns around, pointing at the both of them.

“A warning to you both—choose to follow me or oppose me and I will kill you.” He says so mostly to Haytham, looking at him a moment longer to imprint the meaning of his words, before he turns and leaves hurriedly, taking a nearby horse to take him to his village while he still has time to fix what Washington has started.

 

*          *          *

 

He is too late. Charles Lee has poisoned Kanen’tó:kon’s mind with his words, which strengthens Connor’s belief that he was right when he told Haytham Lee was no less a monster for not killing his mother, though he has little time to think about it between trying to convince his friend Charles Lee is a liar and fending him off without hurting him. In the end, he has no choice, caught between Kanen’tó:kon’s blade and the ground; even if he does not want to kill his friend, Kanen’tó:kon has no such inhibitions, and if Connor wants to live, he has to act. So he does the only thing he can: he engages his hidden blade and stabs it into Kanen’tó:kon’s throat.

He watches his friends die at his hands and cannot find it in him to move for a very long time afterwards.          

           

*          *          *

 

He does not see Haytham for three years.

When he severed their ties, he hoped he would stop thinking about him. He hoped he had fully realised the kind of man his father is, hoped that the bond between them would be less forceful now that he had. In the beginning, this seemed to be true; caught up in the grief for Kanen’tó:kon, his bitterness towards Washington, and the chaos of the battle at Monmouth, he had little time to think about Haytham and what he might or might not still feel.

But as he returns to the homestead, the journey lonely and quiet, he begins to regret what he said. He misses Haytham after roughly two weeks of being without him, and his heart feels heavy when he realises he will not see him again, will not hold him again, feel his touch, hear his breath as he sleeps.

Part of him almost takes the road to New York, to approach Haytham in Fort George and apologise, but he is quick to rein that part in. No matter how he feels, Haytham was wrong to keep such information from him, wrong to manipulate him. If he allows himself to return to his father’s side, who is to say what Haytham might try next? Who is to say he will not try to bring Connor over to the Templars and, what is worse—who is to say he will not succeed? If Connor forgives him now, what else would he be willing to do to stay close to Haytham?

He cannot allow himself to falter. Haytham is his life mate, but he is also (first and foremost, it now seems) a Templar. Connor cannot allow himself to be swayed by his words or his actions, so it is safest to stay far away from him, as much as the prospect makes him anxious.

So he continues on to the Homestead and tries to push Haytham from his mind. If he fails miserably, no one need know.

 

*          *          *

 

Over the course of those three years, Achilles’ health steadily worsens, old age and older hurts catching up with him, and Connor knows it will not be long when the old man is confined to his bed and endures only on the care of Diana, who takes up semi-permanent residence in the manor to look after him. Where Connor was away often during the last few years, helping the Patriots claim the Loyalist forts scattered across the Frontier, he makes sure to be at the Homestead at all times, now, sending his recruits on missions he thinks are not too dangerous and shelving those he thinks are.

He spends most of his time in the basement, training and staring at the portrait wall, and takes his correspondence down, as well. Lee is easy enough to trace but difficult to get to, even now he has been court-martialled and relieved of his duties. He has been installed in Fort George, tucked away safely between its high, thick walls, which Connor suspects is his father’s doing.

After over three years of not seeing Haytham, the hollow ache whenever he thinks of him has lessened to a point where it has become bearable, though he cannot deny he would be glad to be rid of it. In the deepest corners of his mind, he has begun to hope that they still have a chance, that Haytham will see reason once Lee’s influence is gone. He knows he will have no choice but to kill Haytham if things continue the way they are now; Achilles has been pressuring him for it, and he has a hard time denying the old man anything in his current state, no matter how ill he feels whenever he leaves one of those talks. Lee must die, and quickly, so that Connor may see to repairing the broken relationship between himself and Haytham. He is glad, at the very least, that there has been no sign of Haytham for well over a year; none of his recruits are able to tell him what the Grandmaster is doing or where he has retreated to and Connor cannot help but feel relieved. It means he has a chance of getting to Lee before Haytham can interfere.

“Connor?” He looks up from where he is staring at Haytham’s portrait and locks eyes with Diana, who has such a dejected air about her that Connor knows Achilles is not doing well. “He’s asking for you.”

Connor nods at her and passes her on the way to the stairs, making his way to Achilles’ room at the other side of the hall. The old man at least still has the strength to push himself upwards a little so he can turn onto his side and look at Connor, who sits down on the wooden chair set next to the bed.

His face must betray his emotions, for Achilles shakes his head and says gently, “Come now. Your sadness won’t sustain me any more than that fool woman’s soups and potions.” Connor looks at him and wants to say something, anything, to tell Achilles that he will be missed, to thank him for the past twelve years, but the words will not leave his lips, and Achilles has moved onto other topics, asking of his progress.

As he relates the fate of Charles Lee, he sees an opportunity, perhaps the last one he will ever have, and means to bring up Haytham, to convince Achilles that he may live so long as Lee dies, but Achilles spots this, too, and is quick to remind him that Haytham must be removed from this world, as well. His words are firm, but still Connor tries, only to be cut off. He does not get the chance to present his arguments, to plead if all else fails; Achilles calls their discussion to an end with a definitive “There is nothing more to discuss,” and turns onto his back with great difficulty, coughing.

Connor watches him, this old man he will likely not see alive again, and feels guilty. Guilty because he knows that he will not keep his promise if there is any way to prevent it, guilty because it is a poor way to pay back the man who took him in, raised him, trained him, who, despite their sometimes heated discussions, has been more of a father to him than anyone could ever be. He feels ashamed that he will break, has broken, his trust by allowing himself to be swept away by the name on his wrist. But the thought of killing Haytham frightens him more than Achilles’ impending passing does, and he cannot make himself to subject himself to the turmoil he will feel if he takes his blade to his life mate’s flesh.

So he casts a last, regretful look at Achilles before he leaves the room. He apologises in the quiet of his mind, but he knows no apology will ever make up for his negligence.

 

*          *          *

 

Two weeks later, he is weary but alert, stepping onto solid New York ground to be greeted by Stephane. The tunnels have been cleared and Lafayette is waiting for him near the tunnel entrance to Fort George. He nods his thanks at Stephane and starts making his way to the nearest tunnel entrance. Before he opens the hatch, he looks at Fort George in the distance and prays that wherever Haytham is, it is not there.

He goes over the details of the plan with Lafayette and Stephane when they meet up with the former before moving deeper into the tunnel. He forces Haytham to the back of his mind so he can focus solely on getting to the signal fire unseen and tracking Lee down from there.

He is impatient for this kill the way he hasn’t been for any others and it makes him reckless. As he jumps from one roof to the next, he is almost seen by a patrolling gunman and only just manages to take him out with a poisoned dart before the man raises the alarm. He takes a moment to catch his breath on top of the roof and force himself to calm down. He wants to get to Lee as soon as possible, but if he is seen, the entire plan is void and Lee will disappear, and he will have to spend months tracking him down and thinking of a new plan. This is his best opportunity and he should not squander it with impatience.

As he sets off again to cover the final few metres to the signal tower, he makes sure to be more careful, to survey his surroundings and make sure that whatever guards are patrolling the streets are looking away before he moves. His progress is slower than he would like, but he reaches the signal tower unseen and lights the fire.

He waits until he is sure the signal has been seen and throws himself from the tower into a hay card below under the loud thunder of the first volley of cannon fire.

Just as he hoists himself out of the hay cart, a cannon ball hits the side of the building, and Connor is flung against the side of the cart from the impact. The edge digs painfully into his ribs and he thinks, from the way he has to struggle to take a breath, that he has broken at least one of them; that, and his hand comes away bloody when he lifts it away from his side. If he had any more time, this would be the moment where he would retreat to see to his wounds, so that he may chase after Lee fully fit, but he does not have that time, so he forces himself towards the fort, stumbling through alleyways and leaning heavily against buildings where he can.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity later, he staggers onto the central courtyard of the inner fort, leaning a hand on a nearby barrel to keep his balance. He casts a look around. Charles Lee is somewhere within one of these buildings. He feels a growl build low in his throat.

“Where are you, Charles?” he calls loudly, flexing his wrist to test the mechanics of his hidden blade. It slides free easily, to his relief.

“Gone,” Haytham’s voice says from behind him, making him freeze, heart thundering loudly in his chest and in his ears. He turns a second too late and the punches to his jaw and then his upper back bring him to his knees, panting. Instinct takes over and he lashes out, stunning Haytham with a blow long enough to twist his arm onto his back.

Haytham soft laughter echoes in his ears. “Come now, you cannot hope to match me, Connor,” he taunts, turning his head so he can look at Connor, who growls in response, both in anger and despair—anger that Haytham will let it come to this, and fear of what he will have to do if his father actually intends to see this through. “For all your skills, you’re still but a boy, with so much left to learn.”

His mind works quickly, trying to think of ways to incapacitate Haytham without killing him, without causing lasting damage. He pulls the knife of his hidden blade free and stabs it into Haytham’s arm, more with the intention of damaging the mechanics of his father’s own hidden blade than to cause him pain, but Haytham pulls back with a shout, cradling his arm. Blood seeps through his fingers.

Connor tries to balance himself. “Give me Lee!” he bites out and he cannot recognise his own voice, this growling, pleading imitation of it. If only Haytham will step aside, let him get to Lee, then they can both walk away from this. He has to understand.

But that does not happen. “Impossible,” Haytham says immediately, glancing curtly at Connor before methodically examining his bleeding arm. “He is the promise of a better future. The sheep need a shepherd.”

“He has been dismissed and censured,” Connor retorts in a desperate attempt at making Haytham understand, making him reconsider, because he can see where this is going, can see this will not end well for either of them. “He can do nothing for you now.”

“A temporary setback.” Haytham lowers his left hand and straightens. There is a challenge in his eyes when he looks at Connor. “He will be restored.” He pulls his sword and puts his feet apart, gaze trained on Connor, watching, waiting.

It hits him that Haytham will defend Lee no matter what the cost. He will cross swords with his life mate to make sure Lee is safe. He will choose Lee over Connor.

The wave of pain that crashes through him makes him grip his tomahawk and meet the strike of Haytham’s sword when it comes, even as he wants nothing more than to shut his eyes and turn away from all of this.

He never wanted this.

The fight passes in a blur he will only later be able to recall. They trade arguments as much as blows, that much he is aware of, but he knows he is only arguing for the sake of arguing. Both he and Haytham are set in their ways and they have decided on a course—one they intend to see through to the very end, at the cost of anything.

He wonders how long this will continue. His head is throbbing and he has to fight to keep his balance, but Haytham is unable to use his left hand, and his face shows signs of fatigue. At this rate, they will keep fighting until they drop, which, if Connor is honest with himself, would be preferable to the grim alternative. Still, he fights on, because he cannot afford to fall first, if only because Lee will get away if he does.

If he is honest, he is surprised he can still form coherent sentences. With his chest constricting as it is, as if a fist has wrapped around his heart and is squeezing it tightly, he would expect himself to be capable only of emitting painful keens.

He misses a step and sees Haytham steal closer, making use of the opportunity, but he does not get the chance to strike a blow; a cannon ball lands close to them and they are both knocked to the ground.

His vision goes black for a while, but when he regains his wits, he lifts his head and sees Haytham struggling to sit up a few feet away from him. He drags himself closer to his father.

“Surrender, and I will spare you,” he grounds out and means it, of course he means it. He tries to get the importance of his words across, tries to make Haytham see this is the last chance he can offer, but his efforts are turned away with a breathless laugh.

“Brave words, from a man about to die,” Haytham says almost idly, finally sitting up.

“You fare you better,” Connor returns. His robes are soaked with Haytham’s blood as well as his own. Neither of them are in any condition for a prolonged fight, not anymore, but Haytham finds the strength that Connor does not to straddle Connor’s hips, one hand keeping pinning Connor’s left wrist to the ground while the other (the one Connor injured, but he does not dare to think that means anything) wraps itself around Connor’s throat.

He does not try to struggle, frozen by both instincts and the cold drop of his stomach. All he can do is hold onto Haytham’s arm and look at him, looking for words, for anything to say, but nothing will come to him. Haytham is speaking to him, but he does not hear the words. He realises fully what situation he is in. With Haytham’s hand around his throat, it is more than likely that his father will kill him if he does not start doing something to stop him. By all means, he should find a way to free his arm so he can engage his hidden blade, or he will be the one to die instead. When he was in this position with Kanen’tó:kon, he did not hesitate to defend himself, but this is _Haytham_ , his life mate, the one he should strive to keep safe. How can he lift his hand against him?

Haytham stops talking and his hand disappears from Connor’s wrist, leaving him free use of his hidden blade.

Connor thinks about all he will have failed to achieve. He will not have killed Charles Lee. His mother will not be avenged. His people will be captured and sold off like cattle. His village will be gone.

He has worked his entire life to make sure he survived, to make sure he could make Charles Lee pay and save his people. His life will have been for nothing if he dies here. He should raise his hand and stab his hidden blade into his father’s throat.

But the pull in his chest, the flutter in his stomach, the feeling in his gut that warns him to keep Haytham safe, is more than he can fight.

He drops his hand from his father’s arm.

Haytham notices; of course he does. Something shifts in his eyes. “Not going to struggle?”

“I cannot kill you,” Connor says, honestly, and he feels himself relax for the first time in two weeks. He should be more distressed by the prospect of his death, panicked by his failures, but he feels oddly at peace.

Haytham is watching him, an odd look in his eyes, and his grip on Connor’s throat falters as if he means to let go. Something inside of Connor leaps as he spots a chance, however slim it might be.

“Father—”

But before he can finish his sentence, a cannon ball grazes one of the buildings behind them, causing a rain of tiles to fall down on them. He hears Haytham curse in pain and his hands disappear fully; he takes his chance to get Haytham off of him, scrambling to his feet, breathing heavily as he does. He looks at Haytham, who has braced himself on his uninjured hand and looks back at him. They say nothing, but Haytham sighs and shakes his head. Connor knows he has given up.

He leaves Haytham in the wreckage and goes after Lee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I conveniently skipped the Battle of Chesapeake because dear God that would have been a bitch to write, and the chapter was already well on its way of becoming a monstrosity. Can you tell I suck at writing action scenes? :D
> 
>  _“Tell him what you did eighteen years ago.”_  
>  In the game, it’s fourteen instead of eighteen, and that’s always confused me. Haytham means to ask about the burning of Connor’s village, doesn’t he? Which would have happened in 1760, unless I’m very much mistaken, which would make it eighteen years before 1778, when Connor and Haytham are working together. Unless I’m missing something really obvious here, in which case, please enlighten me, because as much as I love this game, it confuses me so much sometimes.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the delay, _again_. Having to commute 5 hours every Monday to get to school just isn't very beneficial to updating on time, haha. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this one!

He goes to Virginia.

Even before the bombardment of Fort George has ended, Haytham is long out of the military quarter, dressed in the same dark cloak and hood he wore when he freed Connor from the gallows, avoiding eye-contact with anyone he sees. Not that he draws that much attention; the city guards are busy trying to keep people away from the fort, and the people are too busy trying to get _into_ the fort to even spare a glance at someone coming out of it. He has taken the time to wrap the wound on his arm, but he doesn’t search for a doctor to take care of it properly. His arm aches and throbs, but he doesn’t want to spend more time in New York than absolutely necessary; if he runs into either Charles or Connor, he will have to make the choice he would rather put off.

He had never been prepared to go through with it and actually kill Connor, of course, but he had thought his instigation of their battle would be enough for Connor to end it all, considering the manner in which they’d parted ways three years prior. But, as he had so many times in the past, he mistook Connor’s character. What with the way the boy had insisted on acting on their bond, he should have known Connor would be as unable to deliver a killing blow as he himself was.

Haytham smiles wryly to himself. They’re quite the pair.

Except that they aren’t. Even if they were unable to kill each other, they haven’t talked. They’ve argued, and Connor has tried to convince him to give up more than once over the course of the evening, but they haven’t made any steps from Valley Forge three years ago. And now Connor is off to chase after Charles and Haytham has failed.

He won’t lie to himself and say it’s better this way. It’s not better. He feels old beyond his years and there’s a heaviness in his bones that isn’t just because of his injuries and fatigue. He feels dejected as much because of the thought of having failed Charles as he does because Connor still won’t be coming back.

Or will he? He is aware Connor was about to say something when the cannon ball struck the roof behind them, guessed from the tone that it wasn’t completely hostile, but once they were parted, Connor was quick to turn away, return to the reason he came to Fort George in the first place. Haytham isn’t sure where they stand now, if they stand anywhere at all.

He supposes it doesn’t matter at the moment.

The frontier is quiet, but he still doesn’t dare lower his hood; though Connor considerably thinned their ranks over the last few years, Haytham knows they have some informants left in the region, and he doesn’t want to risk word getting back to Charles. He does feel guilty for leaving the way he is, for making Charles assume the worst, but it’s the only way he won’t have to choose between his—son, soul mate, whatever they are at this point, and the man who has become his best friend.

Though leaving may be a choice in itself.

He stops in Lexington to let the village doctor have a look at his arm. The man obviously distrusts him, especially so when he doesn’t want to comment on the origins of the injury, but he does his job and sends Haytham off with salves and bandages and the snippy instruction to keep his arm in the sling he put it in for at least a week if he ever wants to make use of it again.

Haytham hands him his payment and leaves his clinic, stopping by the general store for supplies. He has a four-day journey ahead of him, if the weather holds, and he doesn’t intend to stop unless absolutely necessary.

When he sets off again, he doesn’t look back.

 

*          *          *

 

He does exactly what the doctor _didn’t_ order and removes the sling the next day, because he can’t properly ride with one hand and because he’s survived worse injuries. His arm will have plenty of time to heal once he has settled somewhere.

As he rides, he looks at his sleeve, still stained with blood. The cut is clean if painful, and Connor missed all vital arteries—and his name. He doesn’t know whether that was in any way intentional, but it feels like it significant. Or perhaps he is making more of this than it is. Connor still left afterwards, after all.

His hidden blade is well and truly ruined, which was likely Connor’s intention, and his arm feels empty without it. But, then again, he supposes he doesn’t need it, where he’s going. He’s no longer Grandmaster, after all; he forsook that title when he left New York. Charles will likely have taken over the position by now. There’s no more need for stealth, which means there’s no more need for his hidden blade. He had toyed with the idea of leaving it behind, but couldn’t bring himself to do it, which is why the bracer is tucked away in one of the saddle bags. He’s not sure yet what he will do with it. Luckily, it’s not a decision he needs to make now.

Somehow, the weather holds, and he crosses the border to Virginia three days after he set out. He deliberately does not go north, to his estate; his valuables are all at Fort George and even if they weren’t, he can’t go and fetch them if he wants to keep the illusion he perished by Connor’s hands. So instead, he rides for Richmond, where he arrives two days later. In the busy hustle of everyday life, no one thinks twice of the traveller taking up lodgings in the inn.

 

*          *          *

 

Once he’s actually more or less settled, Haytham regrets taking off the sling; his arm aches from frequent use when it should have been resting. He resigns to wearing the sling, even if it does make people frown when they see him.

On his second day in the city, he seeks out one of the Order’s informants and drops a pouch of money in his startled hand.

“S-sir, the Order pays me,” the man, Twitch, says with a confused frown, likely surprised to see the Grandmaster himself in Richmond and not in New York, where he’s supposed to be. He makes no move to actually give the money back, though, Haytham notes.

“Listen closely,” he says, holding Twitch’s gaze. “You will inform me of anything you hear concerning Charles and the native boy following in his tracks. Tell no one the money came from me. You haven’t heard from or about me. Are we understood?”

Twitch’s eyes narrow ever so slightly in suspicion, but he nods and pockets the money. Haytham has no doubts he will do exactly as asked; the one benefit of the Order’s informants is that they’re not _actually_ inducted and don’t share in the details of any of the Order’s plans. They benefit from the coffers, but any one of them would sell their loyalty for the right price. Twitch is no different.

“Where do I find you?” Twitch asks him as he lights a cigarette.

Haytham only just manages not to pull a face at the smell of smoke. “At the inn, for now. Should that change, I will contact you.”

Twitch nods and moves away from the wall he’d been leaning against. “Very well. Until soon, master Kenway.”

“Scott,” Haytham says, deciding on the name in a whim. So long as Charles is alive, Haytham Kenway must vanish from the earth, and Scott will suit as a name as well as any other. “Address me as Scott for the time being.”

Twitch glances back over his shoulder. “Will do, sir,” he says, and rounds the corner. Haytham heaves a sigh once he’s gone and returns to the inn.

 

*          *          *

 

News about either Charles and Connor is slow in coming. It takes a week before Haytham has the confirmation that Charles has taken up the position of Grandmaster, which, more than anything, lets him know that Charles, at least, actually believes he perished in the attack on Fort George. It’s a small blessing. It’s also a small blessing in its own odd way that Charles is still alive to assume the position, that Connor hasn’t gotten to him yet. It makes sense, though; Connor was already injured before Haytham challenged him, and he left a trail of blood in his wake when he departed the Fort. The sensible thing to do would be to rest, recover; he would have lost Charles’ trail either way, either due to his slow progress as caused by his injuries or due to the time spend in recuperation.

That aside, he could afford losing Charles’ trail—now that Charles is Grandmaster, he will be easier to track down, even if Charles chooses to keep running.

Two weeks pass after the first time Twitch contacts him with information, then three, and still there’s no news of Charles having fallen to Connor’s blade. Haytham’s funds have become pressingly finite, and with the long stretches of time without any news, he begins to see he might be staying in Richmond longer than anticipated, which means he will need some way to sustain himself. But here, it becomes painfully obvious that he suffered a very particular brand of upbringing which limit most professions to him. The only one he could reasonably carry out within Richmond without having to start training for it is teaching, but Richmond’s school is small and privileged, and the teacher installed there is not about to vacate his position for someone whose semi-permanent residence is the local inn.

All Haytham can do for now is take up small chores; deliver letters or supplies, and even the latter requires help. Almost a month after sustaining the injury, his arm is showing improvement, but he has no strength in it and the wound is still healing, which makes it so that he can only lift with his right hand, and he is not that dextrous that he can balance a heavy crate on one arm. So the flow of money is even slower than the flow of information, but he makes do. Until his arm heals properly, he has little choice.

 

*          *          *

 

He doesn’t allow himself to think of Connor. He doesn’t allow himself to miss him, to think of things he could have done differently. He doesn’t allow himself to think of what it would be like if Connor hadn’t severed ties with him three years ago, if they had both actually made an effort to make it work, if he hadn’t made the same mistake he made with Ziio and told Connor of Washington’s involvement as soon as he’d learned of it. But what’s done is done. Until he speaks with Connor, such thoughts are irrelevant, so he doesn’t allow himself to have them.

(Except on the nights when he does.)

 

*          *          *

 

Five weeks after his arrival in the city, he is seated at a late breakfast (he slept badly, that night, plagued by phantoms that wrecked his sleep but fled from his memory as soon as he awoke) and trying to ignore the inane chatter of the other patrons when a young girl climbs into the seat next to his.

“Hello,” she says simply, her smile wide and almost infectious, if Haytham were in any better mood.

As it is, he doesn’t know what to make of this girl. “Hello to you too,” he says, putting down his fork. “Can I help you with something?”

The girl, perhaps eight or nine years old, shakes her head. “No,” she says, swinging her legs; one of her shoes hits the leg of the table. “I was bored.” She looks at him and smiles again. “And you were alone, so I thought I could sit with you.” She stops swinging her legs and extends a hand. “My name is Caroline Oakley.”

She seems like a sweet girl, entirely innocent, Haytham thinks, but ever since Fort George (or before that? Ever since Valley Forge, perhaps) he thinks of himself as thriving in solitude, and the girl is entirely too much for his current mood. Still, he takes her hand, if only because there is an inn full of people to keep watch on him. “My name is Edward Scott,” he says and shakes her hand before letting go of it. “Did you come here all by yourself?”

“No,” Caroline says with another shake of her head and points at a young woman conversing with the innkeeper. “Mother and I came here to look for a tu—” She cuts herself off and frowns. “A tu—”

“A tutor?” Haytham supplies, more interested now.

She nods and starts swinging her legs again. “My old tutor,” she says the word slowly, deliberately, but doesn’t actually falter on the pronunciation, “left to be with his daughter. Her husband died.”

Haytham considers her. If the family is actually looking for a tutor, this may be the opportunity he has been looking for in the past few weeks. He always has enjoyed teaching; it’s the reason he took Charles under his wing the way he did. That aside, it is a job that requires his profession instead of his hands, and a job that should pay well enough to cover his stay in the city and his payment for Twitch’s information.

He makes himself relax. “There is a school in three streets from here,” he says, to keep the conversation going more than anything else. “Wouldn’t it be easier if your mother sent you there?”

“I can’t go to that school,” Caroline says simply. “Mr Pratchett doesn’t want to teach me.”

“Really? Why is that?” Haytham asks, out of actual interest this time, because he can’t see any immediate, obvious reason why the school wouldn’t accept her. She seems bright enough, kind enough, but then he doesn’t know anything about children.

Caroline frowns at that. “Mr Pratchett said I’m not—legimate.”

Haytham raises an eyebrow. “Legitimate?”

The girl nods, eyes slightly wider than before. “Do you know what it means, Mr Scott?”

Haytham winces inwardly; he can’t very well explain to a child that it means she was conceived out of wedlock, that she will forever be recognised as a bastard and treated as such unless she or the family decided to move to a new city where no one would have even heard of them.

Luckily, he’s saved from having to think of something to tell her by a woman’s voice.

“Caroline!” The girl’s mother has finished her conversation with the innkeeper and comes over to Haytham’s table to take Caroline’s hand and tug her off of her chair. “What did your father and I tell you about bothering other people? I’m terribly sorry, sir,” she says to Haytham with a bow of her head. “She means no harm, she’s simply very fond of people and doesn’t have many opportunities to come to the city—”

“It’s no bother,” Haytham tells her with a smile. “She seems like a very sweet girl.”

Caroline’s mother smiles back, though it is thin around the edges and the set of her eyes betray how tired she is. “That’s kind of you to say, sir. We’ll leave you to your breakfast. Caroline, say goodbye to the kind gentleman.”

Caroline looks like she might pout at being interrupted in her conversation, but doesn’t. Instead, she drops a curtsy. “Goodbye, Mr Scott,” she says dutifully, and follows when her mother turns and walks to the door.

Haytham almost lets them go, but he needs a job other than carrying letters. “Miss Oakley,” he calls after her, getting up. She falters in her step but doesn’t immediately turn. For a moment, Haytham thinks she might walk off anyway, but then she sighs.

“Mrs,” she says, just loud enough for him to hear, and turns around to face him. She says nothing beyond that, but her eyes are a little sharper now. It isn’t exactly distrust that’s reflected in them, but she does seem less inclined to dismiss him as simply a kind gentleman who entertained her daughter for a few minutes. Still, she waits for him to say what he has to.

“Caroline told me you were looking for a tutor,” he says, lightly enough, resting his hand on the back of his chair to take some of the strain off his arm.

Mrs Oakley glances at Caroline. “We are.”

Haytham chances a step closer to her. “If you happen to still be looking, I might be of service.”

“Mother, mother,” Caroline says immediately and pulls on her mother’s sleeve, “Mr Scott is very smart. He knows all kinds of fancy words and he knew exactly which ones I meant! And he was all alone here. Can’t he come and teach me, mother, please?”

Mrs Oakley averts her gaze from Haytham to look at her daughter. “Darling, it’s not that simple,” she says with a glance back in Haytham’s direction. He knows what she isn’t saying; she doesn’t know if he is the type of man to use the knowledge that Caroline was conceived out of wedlock (she knows he knows—her eyes say it all) in order to secure a position.

Haytham wouldn’t have jumped at the offer if he had been in her shoes, either, so he raises his hands to put her at ease. “I don’t mean to pressure you,” he says. “I can understand you would rather not hire someone who hasn’t been her for more than a few weeks. You’re free to say no.”

Mrs Oakley watches him for a long time as if she is trying to determine what kind of man he is by sight alone. Finally, she puts a hand on Caroline’s head and brushes a stray lock of hair behind the girl’s ear.

“If you want,” she says slowly, and exhales in something that isn’t quite a sigh, “you’re welcome to take tea with us this afternoon. My husband will be home, then, and we can talk.” She looks at Haytham. “Is that acceptable?”

Haytham inclines his head. “Of course. Thank you.”

She nods and takes hold of Caroline’s hand. “The innkeeper can point you to the house,” she says and curtsies shortly. “We shall look forward to your visit, Mr Scott.”

“As will I,” Haytham says, and bows politely, smiling at Caroline.

Caroline beams up at him. “Goodbye, Mr Scott!” she says happily and waves at him as her mother guides her to the door and into a waiting carriage.

Haytham smiles despite himself as he watches them go.

 

*          *          *

 

The house of the Oakleys is located on the very edge of the city, small but isolated, which Haytham suspects may be a deliberate choice. Caroline is outside, bent over a chain of flowers, biting the tip of her tongue in concentration as she works. She looks up when she hears him approach and skips to the house.

“Mother, Mr Scott is here,” she calls, disappearing through the front door; Haytham waits outside, picking up the flower chain she dropped. A few moments later, Mrs Oakley opens the door. She seems more at ease now, perhaps feeling secure in the knowledge that her husband is at home, and actually grants him a small smile as she offers him her hand.

“It’s good to see you, Mr Scott,” she says.

Haytham shakes her hand. “And you as well, Mrs Oakley,” he returns. She steps aside to let him in and leans him to a simple wooden table in the first of what Haytham can see are two rooms in the house. A man who has to be her husband is seated at the head of it, looking Haytham over.

“Mr Scott, I assume?” he says in a rough voice that might not be reserved for just Haytham as he gets up and extends a hand. “Jacob Oakley.”

Haytham shakes his hand; Jacob’s grip is strong and his hand is rough, implying he works with his hands often. Haytham nods and gives a polite smile. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Caroline comes up to him and curtsies, giggling. “Hello, Mr Scott.”

He turns to her. “Hello, Miss Caroline,” he says, just to see a gleeful smile appear on her face, and offers her the flower chain. “I believe you dropped this.”

She takes it from him, careful not to crush any of the flowers in her grip and thanks him. Mrs Oakley watches the exchange from where she’s pouring three cups of tea, so it’s Mr Oakley that tells his daughter to finish her chain outside until she’s called back in. She goes without a word of protest.

“Caroline is very enthusiastic about you,” Mr Oakley says as he watches her go and Haytham takes a seat at the table.

“She seems like a good girl,” Haytham says and gives Mrs Oakley a short smile as she puts down a cup of tea for him. “Very bright.”

“She is,” Mr Oakley agrees, and takes a sip from his cup. “Well, to business, Mr Scott. We are looking for a tutor for her, as you know. Why would hiring you for the job be a good choice?”

Haytham smiles indulgently and wraps his hands around his cup to warm them; it’s halfway through October, and the autumn cold has well and truly set in. “I’ll be honest with you, Mr Oakley,” he says, though he knows he won’t be, not fully, but he can’t possibly explain the entire situation to them without putting them and himself in an awkward position. “I’ve only just arrived in the city a few weeks ago because I couldn’t find employment elsewhere. I won’t pretend like I want this job because of your daughter in particular; she seems like a nice girl, but I don’t know her well enough to be a proper judge of character. I need a proper income, and if tutoring your daughter can provide me with that, I will gladly do it. I understand if you’d rather not employ someone who isn’t fully settled in the city yet, but if you’re still looking, I will suffice just as well as any other.”

Mr Oakley nods. “Do you have any experience?”

“Not with someone as young as your daughter, no,” Haytham replies honestly. “But I have a fair idea of what children her age should know and can provide her with that knowledge.” He looks at Mr Oakley. “If you decide at any point that my teaching isn’t satisfactory, you’re, of course, free to release me at any time.”

“That seems fair,” Mr Oakley says, glancing at his wife. “Did you have any questions, dear?”

Mrs Oakley leans forward in her seat, folding her hands on the table. “I’m concerned about one thing, Mr Scott,” she says, holding Haytham’s gaze. “When I met you this morning, you called me Miss Oakley. You seem like an intelligent man, so I assume you didn’t say that because I look young.”

“I didn’t,” Haytham agrees; he expected this to come up. “When Caroline told me you were looking for a tutor, I asked her why she couldn’t attend regular school, and she explained Mr Pratchett refused to teach an illegitimate child.”

She looks at him searchingly, but seems to accept his answer, nodding. “I see.” She exchanges a glance with her husband. “Would you use that information to secure the position of her tutor, Mr Scott?”

Haytham smiles mildly at her. This, he also expected to come up. “No,” he answers, and means it. “As I told you this morning, you have every right to refuse me. I won’t deny I could use the employment, but I wouldn’t want to get it through untoward means. If you don’t trust me around Caroline, you’re free to decide not to hire me, and I won’t bother you again.”

Mr and Mrs Oakley exchange a long look; Haytham watches them silently and sees Mrs Oakley’s minute nod before she settles back in her chair, seemingly deferring to her husband for the decision.

Mr Oakley clears his throat. “Well,” he says with a glance at the door. “We don’t know you, Mr Scott, so I can’t tell you without the shadow of a doubt that we will hire you. But Caroline seems to like you, and I can see that you may be able to teach her a great many things.” He looks at his wife and nods to himself. “What I can offer you is a period of a month to see how you do. We’ll decide if you’re suitable for Caroline’s education then.”

Haytham feels himself relax. “That’s generous of you,” he says, because, honestly, he expected to be turned down. He rises and extends his hand to Mr Oakley, then his wife.

“We hope to officially hire you, Mr Scott,” Mrs Oakley says with a detached sort of friendliness when their hands part. “It would do Caroline good to have steady lessons again.”

Haytham nods graciously. “I’ll try my hardest.” That’s the most he can promise them at this point.

 

*          *          *

 

He starts his lessons with Caroline the next morning. As he suspected, she is a bright girl, often only needing one explanation before she’s stored the information away, somewhere, and she asks detailed questions that take him aback, sometimes. He is surprised to find he actually enjoys teaching her, enjoys picking at a mind that is still malleable but sharp. In the blink of an eye, one day turns into one week and then one month, and he discusses his long-term appointment with them during a dinner Mrs Oakley invites him to. They decide on a payment and just like that, he has a proper job.

Once he knows the Oakleys entrust their daughter’s education to him, he contacts Twitch, telling him he has relocated to the Oakley residence during the day, but that he will still return to the inn in the evening, so if he has anything to relate, he can leave a message with the innkeeper.

From there, it’s almost frightening how quickly he settles into a routine. In the morning, he has a quick breakfast at the inn before walking to the Oakley residence, where he starts the day off with literature or language and moves onto history, biology, or other subjects. He joins Caroline and Mrs Oakley for tea and goes over some sums with Caroline before he takes his leave and returns to the inn, where he asks for messages and takes his dinner before he retires.

Years ago, he would have abhorred this kind of routine, but he finds himself at ease in it now. It’s easy to get lost in, easy to pretend like this is all there is, and while there is no news of Connor or Charles, it almost seems like it’s the truth.

If Connor plagues his dreams at night, he studiously avoids thinking about it in the morning whilst he gets ready for the day.

 

*          *          *

 

“Mr Scott, what happened to your arm?” Caroline asks him in the middle of a history lesson, placing her hand carefully on his left arm. He looks at her in surprise, but, really, this shouldn’t shock him as much as it does; over the course of the last few weeks, he’s come to realise that Caroline is a very bright girl, for her age, even if she struggles with some words. If anyone would notice he doesn’t use his left arm as much as his right, it would be her.

Still, as bright as she is, he can’t very well tell her he took a knife to the arm whilst fighting his son.

“It’s an old injury,” he tells her instead. “I served in the military for some time and sustained it in battle.” It’s not technically a lie, he thinks, remembering Bergen op Zoom.

Caroline hums thoughtfully and traces one of the buttons of his cuff. “Does it hurt?”

Haytham shakes his head. “Not so much anymore.”

She looks at him. “Can you still read your name?” she asks and it takes him a few moments to realise what she’s talking about.

He smiles slightly. “Yes, I can still read it.”

“Then why isn’t that person with you? Mother says I’m not supposed to ask, but you said I could ask you anything I was curious about.”

Haytham smiles despite himself. “So I did.” He settles back and looks at his arm. “It’s a bit of a complicated story.” He considers his words. “We think differently about a lot of things, and I wasn’t completely honest, so we fought and parted ways. We haven’t really spoken in a few years.”

Caroline seems to consider that, nodding after a few moments of thoughtful silence. “Do you miss them?” she asks, looking at him with something that feels like pity in her eyes. Haytham notices the use of pronoun and is made painfully aware of how bright Caroline actually is.

He’s silent for a good long while before he finds himself nodding. “Yes.”

He can feel Caroline’s gaze on him before she pats his arm carefully. “Don’t give up yet, Mr Scott,” she says as if she has any authority on the matter. “Mother always says everything will work out in the end.”

He makes himself smile and reaches over to ruffle her hair. “Your mother is a bright woman. But I’m here for you, now, so let’s return to what we were discussing, yes?”

Just like that, Caroline’s attention is back on the tale of Joan of Arc, her earlier questions apparently forgotten.

His wrist feels warm where it’s adorned with Connor’s name; Haytham takes comfort in the fact that he still has that, if nothing else.

 

*          *          *

 

When Twitch doesn’t contact him for months on end, he starts doubting any news will come. Perhaps Charles actually managed to secure himself and get far out of Connor’s reach. Continuing to think about it becomes too time-consuming, so he doesn’t. He stops waiting for news and devotes himself fully to Caroline.

The longer he stays with the Oakleys, the more they warm to him and, if he’s honest with himself, he to them. Mrs Oakley has taken to inviting him over for dinner when he finishes his lessons with Caroline for the day, and Haytham is surprised to discover both she and her husband are pleasant partners for discussion now that their initial distrust him has evaporated. He finds himself enjoying his time spent at the house and dreading his return to the tavern in the evenings; even though he has accepted the fact that he will likely hear nothing further on either Charles or Connor, he hasn’t taken the effort of looking for actual accommodation. Not that he really needs it; he spends most of the day at the Oakleys, with the exception of the night and breakfast, and if he has to suffer the inn for that, he can manage it.

He becomes so immersed in his new day-to-day routine that he is actually shocked when Twitch appears at the house one day in October.

Haytham is outside with Caroline, explaining the process of trees shedding their leaves in autumn and pointing out the different stages of it on the trees surrounding the house, when the man shows up, and he doesn’t even notice him at first; it’s Caroline who has to alert him to his presence. Haytham looks up when she does and recognises Twitch immediately.

He gets up. “Go inside for a moment, Caroline, please,” he says without looking away from Twitch. Caroline lingers by his side for a few seconds, but eventually, she does as told. Haytham waits for the door to close before approaching Twitch. “I told you not to come to the house,” he says.

Twitch has the decency to look chastised. “I know, sir, but I thought you’d want to hear this immediately,” he says. pulling a piece of paper from his pocket and handing it to Haytham. “It’s master Lee.”

Haytham looks at the piece of paper. It’s a short notice from a newspaper, relating the finding of a body in a tavern on the frontier, someplace in Philadelphia. The man has been identified as former general Charles Lee; he suffered two deep wounds, one to his stomach, caused by a bullet fired at close range, the other to his chest, caused by a knife. There’s no sign of the culprit.

So Connor got to Charles. He had expected to feel some sort of guilt, remorse, anything, upon learning of Charles’ fate, but he feels oddly resigned. Even if he had died by Connor’s hand that day in Fort George, the boy would still have gotten to Charles. There was no way he could have prevented this. From the moment Connor’s name appeared on his wrist in Damascus, this was how it would always end. If he’s fully honest with himself, he feels relieved, now that it’s well and truly over. He offers a silent apology to Charles for that, and for not being a better friend, but once he has, he feels strangely at peace with it all.

He takes a breath. “I see,” he says, smoothing out a wrinkle in the paper with his thumb. “What of the boy?” Even if the paper knows nothing of Connor’s whereabouts, the Order (or what’s left of it, now that Charles is dead) might.

“Nothing, sir,” Twitch says. “Vanished into thin air.” Vanished. That means he is alive, at least. He has to be; Haytham hasn’t felt anything that would tell him his soul mate is no longer on this earth. He hasn’t broken down like Mother did when Father was killed. Connor is still alive. Hiding, but alive.

He nods at Twitch and tucks the newspaper article away. “Thank you,” he says, and hands over Twitch’s payment. The man pockets it and, knowing he has been dismissed, turns around and starts walking away. Haytham watches his retreating back and comes to a decision. “Twitch,” he says, waits until the man glances back over his shoulder. “There’s no need to find me again.”

Twitch looks at him and nods, tipping his hat. “Been a pleasure, sir.”

Haytham nods in response and watches Twitch walk away. He allows himself a few moments to gather his thoughts, to carefully weigh arguments, but he knows he’s already made up his mind. He has to be closer to Connor.

He will go back to New York.

He wonders when he became so attached to the boy. He doesn’t know if it’s the bond or his own feelings, but then he supposes it doesn’t matter; whether it’s because there was no other way but to fall in love with Connor or because it just happened, he’s stuck with it now, and he knows he has to go back to New York. He doesn’t have the first idea where to look for Connor, and he doesn’t think it’s wise if he does, anyway; Connor severed their ties, four years ago, and made it clear he wanted nothing more to do with him. That may have changed, if Connor’s address during the final stages of their battle in Fort George is any indication, but it isn’t Haytham’s place to assume. If Connor wants reconciliation, he will be the one to find Haytham. But he can at least make the boy’s job easier—and, he thinks, give himself hope that Connor might actually come for him—by going back.

Even if Connor will never seek him out again, he has to go back.

He only notices he has been fiddling with his left sleeve when he drops his hands and walks to the house. Caroline is seated at the table with Mrs Oakley, sipping from a cup of tea. Both look up when he closes the door behind him and though he smiles reassuringly at Caroline, he addresses Mrs Oakley. “Might I have a word?”

She nods and gets up to pour him a cup of tea. “Caroline, why don’t you go outside to play for a little while?” she says to her daughter, who looks as though she might protest and even opens her mouth to do so, but closes it before she says anything. She climbs down from her chair and walks to the door, but before she opens it, she halts.

“Mr Scott, you still have to finish telling me about what happens to the leaves after they fall from the tree.”

Haytham smiles. “I will.”

Caroline nods, apparently satisfied with the promise, and walks out, closing the door behind her. Mrs Oakley sets down a steaming cup of tea as he sits down and takes her own seat across the table, looking at him expectantly.

Haytham finds himself at a loss for words, unsure how to explain he lied to her when they met, and looks at his tea for a few moments before he takes a breath. “I must apologise. I wasn’t completely honest with you when I came to talk to you about the job.” Mrs Oakley says nothing, doesn’t even move, and Haytham realises it’s not news to her. He smiles wryly. “My name isn’t Edward Scott. It’s Haytham Kenway. I told you that I came to Richmond because I couldn’t find employment elsewhere. In truth, I came here because I didn’t want anyone to know where I’d gone. I can’t tell you the finer details, just that I couldn’t be in New York.”

Mrs Oakley still says nothing, as if she’s waiting for him to finish what he has to say. Haytham closes his hand around his cup, uncomfortable with her silence. “When I left New York, I wasn’t on the best of terms with my son. We hadn’t spoken in three years and when we did a year ago, it... didn’t end well. But I believe I have a chance, now, to try and mend my relationship with him. But in order to do that, I have to go back to New York.”

At that, Mrs Oakley shifts in her chair. “Which means you will be leaving.”

He inclines his head. “Yes.”

She nods thoughtfully, taking a sip from her tea, looking at the window to her right as she, presumably, arranges her thoughts. Finally, after what feels like hours, she looks at Haytham. “I know who you are, master Kenway. My brother-in-law used to work for your Order. He died years ago, so I don’t know what happened to you after that, and I know not to ask.” She traces the rim of her cup with a finger. “I don’t appreciate being lied to, but Jacob and I knew you didn’t tell us the whole story when you left the conversation, so it’s not as much of a surprise as you might think. That aside, you have taken good care of Caroline. She enjoys your lessons with her and you’ve never said or done anything that gave us cause for concern.” When she looks at him, her eyes are kind. “So all I can say is that we will be sad to see you go and to wish you luck with your son.”

Haytham doesn’t know what he expected, going into this conversation, but it certainly wasn’t this. He doesn’t know what to say, how to give voice to the gratitude and relief he feels at her kindness; all he can manage is a rather subdued, “Thank you.”

Mrs Oakley gets up and offers her hand. “Thank you, master Kenway, for the past months,” she says, smiling. “I meant what I said. We are sad to see you go. Caroline most of all, I think.”

He takes her hand and says honestly, “I’m sad to be going.”

She’s still smiling when he lets go of her hand. “Should you ever be in Richmond again, our door will be open.”

“Thank you,” he says, inclining his head. “I will remember it.”

She picks up their cups and moves them to the barrel of water she uses to do their dishes in. “You’d best finish your lesson with Caroline. I assume you will be staying for dinner?”

He finds himself laughing softly. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

 

*          *          *

 

He leaves Richmond in much the same way as he arrived, with his meagre possessions tucked away in the saddlebags of his horse.

Saying goodbye to Oakleys, and especially to Caroline, was more difficult than he imagined, but he promised them to write once he had settled, and that quiets his mind. Caroline was sad to see him go, but once she heard his reason for leaving, she began to smile and wished him luck. When he actually left, she was waving him goodbye cheerfully.

En route to New York, he stops in Philadelphia, dressed in the black cloak he wore when he left New York a year prior. The article Twitch brought him mentioned that Charles would be buried here sometime within the week, and when he asks around, he learns that he’s a day early. He rents a room for the night and makes his way to the graveyard the next morning, watching from the relative safety of the corner of a nearby building, listening to a priest bless Charles’ remains, and trying to ignore the sobs of Charles’ wife. She and her two sons linger long after everyone else has left, but eventually, one of the two men offers his arm to his mother and they depart.

Haytham stops by the mound of earth that covers his friend’s grave and squats down, touching the dirt. “I’m sorry,” is all he says, all he can say—during the past few days of travelling, he’s tried to feel guilty, but he hasn’t succeeded so far, and seeing Charles’ grave does nothing more than summon an overall feeling of sadness. He will miss Charles, he knows, but the guilt he so desperately tries to feel doesn’t come.

He leaves Philadelphia the very same day, telling himself there is nothing more he could have done and pretending like he still needs to convince himself.

 

*          *          *

 

When he reaches New York a week after setting out from Richmond, nothing has changed. The city is still the same as when he left it, a year ago; the only difference is the buzz in the air and the smaller number of British soldiers, but otherwise, life continues on as usual. Merchants still try to sell their wares on the streets, women still band together to complain about their husbands or their children, and the men still band together to complain about everything else. He’s never considered New York his home as such, but making his way through the city streets feels oddly nostalgic.

He doesn’t know for how long he’ll be here. He’s here for Connor, after all, but there’s no telling when the boy will come to find him—if he even does so. He’s lived in an inn for the past year and it doesn’t look like that will change soon, he thinks as he makes his way to the Black Horse tavern to arrange a room. It doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would.

Unlike in Richmond, he doesn’t try to look for employment. His goal is first and foremost to talk to Connor, to see if there is any chance of reconciliation, and only then start thinking about what he will do with the years that still remain to him. So he spends his day in and around the tavern, asking around for Connor when he can, but no one ever remembers a native boy passing by, so his enquiries fall on deaf ears. After a week, he stops asking, and resolves to wait.

But one week turns into two and they turn into a month, and still there’s no sign of Connor. Still, Haytham waits, one, two weeks more, just in case Connor was injured during his fight with Charles and is still recuperating. But with every passing day of no news and no glimpse of the boy, he becomes less and less optimistic. Almost two months later, he has given up.

This is ridiculous, he tells himself. If Connor had any intention of seeking him out, he would have been here by now. He will leave tomorrow.

(He has been telling himself that for the past month.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the hell, this thing is huge. I swear I didn’t mean for it to get out of hand like this, but Caroline and the Oakleys are a bit of an indulgence of mine, so I couldn’t help but give them some screen time. 
> 
> Knowing my schedule on Wednesday, the next one will probably be a little later than usual, too, but you will have it on Wednesday, scout's honour!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We had a band at school today. I'm mostly deaf now. 
> 
> That useless bit of information aside, enjoy!

Lee is dead.

It has taken him a long year of tracking him down, of finding an opportunity to strike, but the deed is done. Charles Lee’s body is slumped over the table, blood seeping into the wood and dripping from Connor’s hidden blade.

He watches the body of his arch nemesis and feels—nothing. For years, he believed he would feel a sense of satisfaction, of justification, once Charles Lee lay dead at his feet, once he had accomplished what he had spent all those years training for. But instead, he can only think of everything he has lost. He was unable to save his mother, to save Kanen’tó:kon. Achilles has passed.

Haytham. He has seen hide nor hair of his life mate in over a year. He knows Haytham is alive, feels it in his bones, but he may have lost him all the same. He is alone.

His limbs feel heavy when he struggles to stand. He hesitates, but then reaches out to close Charles’ eyes. He takes the amulet he found around Charles’ neck with him when he limps out of the inn.

 

*          *          *

 

Whilst he was still chasing after Charles, he was too focused to notice the severity of this injuries, but now that the rush has gone, he becomes aware that he is not well—that he is, in fact, decidedly _un_ well. He finds himself struggling with every step, the wound in his side acting up whenever he moves. When he drags himself into the saddle of the horse he used to get here, there is a blinding moment of panic when he cannot breathe through the sudden, sharp pain in his ribs. It passes once he sits upright, but his fingers come away bloody when he touches his side.

He wraps his ribs and the wound on his side with pieces he tears from his shirt. He should see a doctor, he knows, but he does not think it wise to go to one on the Frontier, if only because he will have to answer uncomfortable questions. If he can make it to the Homestead, he can have Dr. White examine his injuries and avoid the questions.

That aside, he trusts Dr. White. He knows the doctors on the Frontier are probably very capable, but he has suffered enough by placing his trust in the wrong people, and he would rather not take any chances.

So he sets his jaw against the pain and urges his horse on.

 

*          *          *

 

Against all odds, he makes it to the Homestead, but only just. His horse is as exhausted as he is and does not manage to carry him all the way to the manor; he has to dismount once he has crossed the borders of the Homestead and lead it on by the reins.

It is the walk that proves to be too much. The last thing he remembers is stumbling along one of the paths leading to the manor. He must have collapsed somewhere, because the next thing he becomes aware of is that he is warm and resting on something soft.

“Don’t get up yet,” he hears a familiar voice say. With his fevered mind, he cannot quite place it, only knows that he feels safe around this voice, and attributes it to the only person he can think of that has made him feel like this.

“Father?” he croaks.

The voice scoffs gently. “If I am, someone has a lot of explaining to do,” it says. Connor carefully opens his eyes to see Dr. White move to the side of the bed, putting his hand over Connor’s forehead to test his temperature.

Connor deflates. Of course it would not be Haytham. He has not seen his father in over a year. The realisation leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

“You’re lucky to still be alive,” Dr. White tells him as he pours a cup of water and helps him sit up. He winces at the strain on his injuries, but it is better than it has been for the past few days, and the water does actually help ease his parched throat, so he swallows gratefully. “When Godfrey and Terry found you, you’d lost so much blood that I didn’t think I could manage to patch you up in time.” He helps Connor get settled against the pillows. “Someone up there must have a soft spot for you.”

Connor closes his eyes simply because keeping them open is too much effort. “How bad is it?”

“Well, if I thought you’d listen, I’d advise you to keep to your bed for at least two weeks, if not more,” Dr. White says, “but we both know you won’t actually listen if I do.”

Despite of it all, Connor feels a smile tug at his lips, though it fades quickly. “No,” he says, and tries to rearrange himself, groaning as he does. “I have nowhere I need to be, for now.”

“Really?” Dr. White sounds surprised, but then he knows Connor’s tendency to run off before his injuries have properly healed, so Connor cannot blame him. “In that case, keep to your bed. You pulled through by the skin of your teeth. Two weeks is the bare minimum of what you need.”

Connor nods. “Thank you,” he says earnestly.

“My boy, it’s my job,” Dr. White responds. “And no one has forgotten what you’ve done for the community. Patching up your injuries is the least I can do.” Connor can feel a pat on his a

arm. “Get some rest. You will need all of your energy to recover.” He can hear Dr. White’s footsteps move away from the bed, and the door closes quietly.

He is so tired. Charles Lee is dead; the Templar Order left leaderless and disbanded. He can rest.

He slips into sleep easier than he has in years.

 

*          *          *

 

During the time he is confined to his bed, he thinks of Haytham frequently. Mostly, he wonders where is, if he has recovered from their fight, if he is healthy. More rarely, he wonders if Haytham is thinking of him, too, but he does not dare linger on that thought.

He can admit to himself that he misses Haytham. Perhaps it is because his chest has taken to clenching painfully whenever he remembers that Haytham is not here, has not been here for four years, or perhaps it is because he grew fond of his father despite of their bond, but he does miss him in a way that he has not over the past four years. If he thought of Haytham often during that time, it is nothing compared to what he feels now.

While he drowses somewhere in between sleep and wakefulness, he allows himself to wonder what it would be like if he sought Haytham out, now. Whatever divided them has been eliminated, so aside from any unwillingness on Haytham’s behalf, there is nothing keeping them apart. He thinks on that when he wakes, as well, thinking of reasons why he should not but coming up empty-handed. There is nothing stopping him from finding Haytham once he is recovered and seeing if there is still a chance to reconcile. He can find him. He still has not forgiven Haytham for manipulating him, but it is four years in the past, and Charles Lee is dead. He can forget it.

Once he decides on that course of action, he starts feeling better, if restless; the pull in his chest that had dulled over the course of four years is gaining in strength and he thinks, hopes, that he could follow it and it would lead him to Haytham. It is all he has to go on, anyway, as no one within the Brotherhood has seen Haytham ever since their fateful encounter in Fort George. If the pull does not lead him to his father, he will have to start afresh.

Connor counts the days until he can get out of bed by the expression on Dr. White’s face when he comes to check on his injuries. But even though they are healing better than either of them expected, weeks of bed rest have eaten away at his strength, and he finds himself barely able to walk from the bed to the window without having to grab a hold of the nightstand for support. It frustrates him, but he concedes that he could not travel anywhere in this condition, and so is forced to put off his search for his father until he has regained proper use of his muscles.

He pushes himself harder than he did when he first arrived at the manor, harder than Achilles ever pushed him, but his progress is still too slow for his liking. But there is nothing he can do about that, so he works again and again every single day, and hopes that he is not too late yet.

 

*          *          *

 

It takes him a month longer to recover enough that he can walk more or less upright without having to stop for breath every five paces, but when he does, it is easy, almost too easy, to follow the pull to New York and find his father at breakfast in an otherwise non-descript inn. In the doorway, Connor takes a few minutes to gather himself, suddenly unsure whether he is still welcome at Haytham’s side after Lee, after more than four years of no contact with the exception of Fort George, no attempt from Haytham to find him. He is not about to turn around and leave, not now that he has come so far, but he is rooted to the spot.

Almost as if sensing him, Haytham looks up and locks eyes with him, holding Connor’s gaze for a few tense moments during which Connor is convinced he will turn away, but then his shoulders slump slightly as if in relaxation and he beckons Connor over.

Connor only realises he was holding his breath when he releases it, and he walks over to his father’s table. In the meanwhile, Haytham has gone back to his breakfast, cutting off a piece of an omelette with his fork.

“Sit,” Haytham says without looking up, but his voice is not unkind. “You look like you’re about to fall over.” His gaze flits to Connor when the latter pulls back the chair on the opposite side of the table, looking him over. Connor pretends not to see it and sits down gingerly, still not used to riding for a long period of time ever since his recovery.

Once he is seated, Haytham looks away again and finishes his breakfast. Connor watches him in silence, observing the little mannerisms that now seem so familiar but that slipped his mind during the past four years. He also takes note of the fact that Haytham completes almost all of the tasks involved in finishing off his breakfast with his right hand. He is not using his left arm as he should, Connor thinks, and feels a stab of guilt at the realisation. While Haytham had done some damage to him, most of Connor’s injuries of that day had come from stray cannon balls, and those that were actually caused by his father were bruises that faded within a few days. Connor did _lasting_ damage to Haytham.

He swallows around the unpleasant feeling that accompanies that thought and lifts his eyes to Haytham’s face to find a pair of keen eyes studying him in return. Connor expected to find a wry smile tugging at his father’s lips, but there is none; Haytham simply sighs and puts down his napkin.

“This is not so much your fault as that of my own negligence,” he says with a gesture at his arm, and folds his hands on the table. Connor doubts that, but does not say so. He has not come here to argue.

Instead, he looks for words that can explain why he _has_ come, that can grasp how much he knows he needs Haytham’s presence, how much he would like to try to make something out of nothing. It is not an apology he is looking for, because he knows Haytham will not apologise, either, and because they do not need apologies. What they need is a plan, and Connor searches for words to explain that, too.

“You did not attempt to find me,” is all he can say, and he winces as soon as the words leave his mouth. At least he did not sound accusatory, and Haytham does not seem offended—his face maintains the same neutral expression it has had ever since Connor took a seat at the table.

“Well, seeing as how the last time we met, one of us was supposed to die, and the time before that, you told me we were finished, I assumed I was doing what you wanted,” Haytham responds after a short silence, closing his hand around a steaming cup of presumably tea by his right. On anyone else, Connor might have termed the movement discomfort or anxiety, but he has never seen his father feel either one of those emotions. But his words feel like the truth, so it might be discomfort after all. Haytham has always been a proficient liar, Connor knows, but this does not feel like a lie.

It does not make him understand, though, so he asks, “Then why did you stay?”

“In case you changed your mind,” Haytham says and this feels like the truth, too. It makes Connor’s chest clench in something that is different from the painful constriction he has felt in the past. This one is not as unpleasant.

Haytham holds his gaze for a moment before he averts his eyes to his cup, adding, “And I didn’t stay. I came back.”

That admission does not make Connor understand any more. He forgot how wrong-footed his father can make him feel, though he thinks that he is not doing it on purpose, this time. This, he thinks, is because they have not spoken like this in four years, or indeed ever. This is because they are learning each other, the way they should have years before. They did not have the chance, then, but they do now, and so Connor accepts the feeling of being off-kilter. But if they are learning each other, then he must learn how his father feels about the death of his friend and his life mate’s hand in it, and so he must ask.

He steels himself for the answer even before he asks the question. “You know about Charles Lee?”

Haytham’s eyes move up to his for the briefest moment at the name. “I do,” he says, and his voice is perfectly steady. There is no anger, no resentment, simply the neutral detachment that comes with a statement of fact, and Connor’s mind draws a blank. “I had someone keep me informed.”

“And yet you returned,” Connor says, frowning. “Why?” He expected some sort of chastisement for doing to Charles what he did, but Haytham has not mentioned the man even once of his own volition. Connor does not understand. Most of their arguments in the past were either about their differences in ideology, or about Charles Lee, so for his father to not say anything about his death when he worked so many years to prevent it is strange.

Haytham sighs. “Charles was my friend, Connor, but you—” He cuts himself off; Connor can see his gaze sweep the interior of the inn before he stands abruptly, motioning for Connor to follow him. Connor does so. They ascend the stairs and Haytham leads him to a room at the very end of the landing, closing the door behind himself after letting him in.

Haytham passes him and walks to the window, closing it and leaning against the frame once he has. “Charles was my friend,” he says again. “I’ve spent months trying to feel guilty over the fact that I wasn’t strong enough to stop you from going after him, but I haven’t managed, so far.” The set of his mouth tightens. “I knew I’d signed his death sentence when I let you go. I came back because I’m just as guilty as you are and if I can’t properly resent myself over it, I can’t exactly hold it against you, can I?” He folds his arms carefully; Connor wonders how much his arm still bothers him.

“What’s done is done,” Haytham says, perhaps as much to himself as to Connor, and Connor imagines a heavy load falling from his shoulders. If Haytham does not hold Charles’ death against him, then perhaps, perhaps, they can try.

“What’s done is done,” he agrees, referring to Fort George and Washington and everything else, and locks eyes with Haytham to get the meaning across. He does not know whether he succeeds, but Haytham inclines his head as if he understands something, so Connor does not push further. Instead, he takes a seat on the edge of Haytham’s bed, close enough that he could probably nudge Haytham’s boot if he extended his leg, but he does not.

“What will you do now?” he asks instead. Haytham came back because of him, he admitted as much during their conversation downstairs, but Connor would like to hear him say it.

Haytham exhales. “That rather depends on you,” he says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I haven’t made any cast-iron plans. I’ve been living out of taverns for a year, for God’s sake.”

Connor thinks about that, about what he wants from his father, from their relationship, and realises that, as badly advised as the idea might be, and as much as it will likely not be smooth sailing, he wants to be near Haytham. He has spent four years without him and does not feel the better person for it. At this point, he has stopped caring whether it is the bond making him feel it or whether he would still feel like this without it, but he feels more complete with Haytham near him. If he can have that feeling for the rest of Haytham’s life, why should he not try to chase after it?

With his mind made up, he lifts his chin so he can look at Haytham properly. “If you have no place to stay,” he says, and he still cannot think of a reason why this would be a bad idea, “come to the Homestead with me.”

It startles a quiet laugh out of his father. “As much as I can appreciate the black humour in that proposal,” he says with a trace of his own dry brand of humour in it, “I doubt your mentor will appreciate your harbouring the former Templar Grandmaster on his estate.”

Haytham’s phrasing catches Connor’s attention. “Former?” he says sharply, too sharply for this conversation, but he has to know what that means. He does not imagine Haytham has had a sudden change of heart, but stranger things have happened.

“Well, there’s not exactly a substantial Templar faction left to manage, is there?” Haytham counters without much heat in it, though his eyes flash warningly. “Don’t get any ideas—I still believe our ideals are just. I simply lack the means to carry them out.”

Connor decides not to rise to the bait, especially because it likely was not intended to be such, and says instead, “Achilles is dead.”

That is news to Haytham; Connor can tell from the way his hand twitches slightly against his arm. “Ah.” He seems to waver for a moment before he comes over and sits down next to Connor on the bed, though there is plenty of space between them. “My condolences.”

Connor acknowledges him with a nod, but does not react to it in any other way. Instead, he repeats, “Come to the Homestead with me.”

Haytham studies him at that, searching his eyes for something, the way he did on the Aquila when Connor pressed the issue of their relationship. Finally, he heaves a sigh. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? You know how we argue.”

Connor knows. But they have been talking for well over fifteen minutes and they have not argued yet. He has no doubts that they will if confined to the manor together, but at the moment, he will choose that over separation. “I would rather argue if it means having you near than be on good terms but have you at a distance.” He pauses, then admits, “I did not like the last four years.”

Haytham’s hand twitches again and Connor wonders if it means he wants to reach out. He does not, and Connor does not try to do so, either, simply settling for watching Haytham watching him. Haytham does not return the words, not verbally, but Connor does not need him to; he remembers the look on Haytham’s face when Connor dropped his hand, and can see that same painful grimace start to creep into Haytham’s eyes. He does not need to say it for Connor to know the last four years were not easy on his father, either.

After a few moments of silence, Haytham nods. “Very well,” he says, and something in Connor’s chest eases. Haytham gets up. “Let’s be off, then.”

Nothing more needs to be said on the matter, apparently, which Connor is fine with. He waits for Haytham to gather what belongings he brought and then for Haytham to settle his payment with the tavern keep so that they can see to procuring horses together. Though he should be tired of horse travel by now and his muscles certainly protest the movement when he climbs into the saddle, Haytham’s presence at his side makes him feel lighter.

They have much to talk about, he realises, but they will have plenty of time once they actually get to the Homestead. For now, he can revel in the fact that he has what he has wanted for so long, which he intends to do for at least the entire ride back.

With a glance at Haytham, he urges his horse into a steady pace, smiling as he goes.

 

*          *          *

 

The journey back to Davenport Homestead takes them three days. Because of the dark clouds gathering overhead on the second day, they decide to go through Boston, so that they will have an inn to take shelter in should a storm break loose. They book a room with two beds, but never actually use them; Connor takes one look at Haytham taking off his boots by the bed and decides then and there that they really should have saved the money. Once Haytham actually lays down, Connor makes use of the opportunity to sidle up next to him in the bed, his back to Haytham’s chest. Haytham lets him, even wraps an arm around his waist to keep him close.

Connor smiles into the pillow and drifts off on the feeling of being safe.

The storm does not set in until late into the third day. It is not that impressive, more of a rain storm than anything else, but it is enough to make Haytham’s expression darken. Connor, on the other hand, delights in the feeling of rain on his skin, and tips his head back to catch the drops on his face. He hears Haytham’s disgruntled sigh, which, considering the fact that they will reach the Homestead in less than an hour, makes Connor smile in genuine amusement. He catches his father’s eye and grins, delighting in the eye roll it gets him, and urges his horse faster.

They make good time, better than Connor anticipated, but they are still drenched to the bone by the time they arrive at the manor and put the horses to stable. Connor is still in an oddly good mood, better than he has been in years, and it makes him playful, nudging Haytham’s shoulder before dashing off in the direction of the house. He hears Haytham grumble, but he follows in spite of what inhibitions he might have, and they more or less crash into the house at the same time.

Connor is laughing, leaning against the wall to catch his breath, delighting in having Haytham in the place he has called home for so long. His laughter makes Haytham shake his head, but there is a smile playing around his lips when he shakes the water from his hat and takes off his cloak.

“Glad to see you’re amusing yourself at my expense,” he grouses without much heat in it, pulling a face as he looks at the soggy state of his cloak. “Honestly, you’d think you’d at least have some concern for your health. Or mine.”

Even now that he has calmed down somewhat, Connor is unable to wipe the smile from his face. “A little water never hurt anyone, father,” he says, stealing closer to pick the ribbon from Haytham’s hair, just because he can. “I’m sure you will live.”

Haytham sighs and takes the ribbon from Connor’s fingers. “If not, I’ll know who to thank.” He looks at Connor properly, then, and something shifts in his eyes. Connor takes note of how close they are and wets his suddenly dry lips. They have slept close together during the past few nights, of course, both out of necessity and because they could, but they have not done anything further. Connor has been so focused on Haytham’s absence and the relief that he is back that he has not realised before that he actually has missed Haytham’s touch in addition to his presence, but now he does realise, and it is surprisingly difficult not to stare at Haytham’s lips and think of a way he can close the distance between them.

He is still thinking about it when they somehow come together, but he still cannot be sure he did not press his lips to Haytham’s subconsciously. He quickly decides it does not matter, so long as Haytham does not stop kissing him, which, luckily, does not seem to be his intention, if the hand wound into Connor’s hair is any indication. Connor breathes a sigh against his life mate’s mouth as he deepens their kiss, holding onto Haytham by his coat. He has missed this.

Somehow, they make it up the stairs, shedding their clothes across the landing. Somewhere in between the top of the stairs and the bedroom, Haytham wraps his hand around Connor’s half-hard cock, causing Connor to miss a step and almost fall into the bedroom, emitting a low groan against Haytham’s lips, swallowing the answering chuckle.

When Haytham presses him down against the bed, he feels lightheaded, not only because he cannot seem to catch his breath in between strokes and nips at his throat, but more so because of the entire situation, because he has this, when he thought he would never have it again. Perhaps it is because of that realisation that he is no longer nervous. Four years ago, on the Aquila, he was not ready for their touches to progress anywhere, perhaps afraid of what it would do to him, but now, he wants it. He needs it.

He tries to tell Haytham as much by clenching his hand in the man’s hair, tugging slightly even as Haytham sucks a bruise into his throat.

“Please,” he manages to croak, surprising even himself with how wrecked he sounds when Haytham has not really done anything yet. Still, it might work in his favour, because Haytham immediately locks eyes with him. There is a pinch of what Connor might term regret in his expression and he wonders why, but Haytham answers that unspoken question quickly by cursing under his breath.

“I’d wanted to take this slower,” he says in a tone of voice that makes Connor think he is speaking to himself instead of to Connor, especially because his voice is louder when he then asks, “Have you got any oil?”

Connor takes a breath and nods. “Leather oil, in the cabinet.” He points the piece of furniture out to Haytham, who kisses him before he gets up to retrieve the jar. Connor watches him shamelessly as he goes, tracing the lines of fading muscle on his father’s back and arms. It is almost painfully obvious that Haytham has aged over the past year; Connor wonders, swallowing down a painful clench in his chest, how much of that was his doing, how much Haytham’s left arm contributed to his condition, but, most of all, if he can help reverse the process, help Haytham make use of his body again, now that they have the time.

Haytham must take his distraction to mean that he is having second thoughts, because he is almost cautious when he slowly sets down the jar on the bed and looks at Connor. “It’s fine if you’ve changed your mind,” he says as he settles down next to Connor on the bed. The way his gaze sweeps over Connor heatedly betrays that he would need some time alone if Connor did tell him to stop, but he would.

That knowledge alone makes Connor smile. “I haven’t,” he says, dropping his gaze to Haytham’s arm, where he thinks he can still see a thin scar on his lower arm, where Connor drive his knife into his flesh. He traces it. “I was just thinking about this,” he admits.

Haytham sighs softly and puts his hand on Connor’s hair. “I told you this wasn’t your fault,” he says. “If I’d done what the doctor told me to, it would likely be fine, but I was stubborn and used it for riding before it had a chance to heal even a little. You missed all of the major arteries. So stop feeling guilty about it.”

“Does it hurt?” Connor asks with a frown. Haytham can insist he had no blame in this, but he was the one wielding the knife.

“Sometimes. Likely about as much as that still bothers you,” Haytham says with a pointed look at the scar on Connor’s side before pulling his arm away from Connor’s hand. “Did you honestly want to spend the entire evening talking about this?” He holds up the jar of oil. “Because I might as well put this away if you do.”

That makes Connor chuckle softly and shake his head. He banishes the topic to the back of his mind for a later date, along with all the other things they still need to talk about, and pulls Haytham into a kiss. He waits until Haytham is suitably distracted with kissing him, uncorking the jar, and slicking his fingers to wrap his legs around his father’s waist and reverse their positions, so that Connor is now the one straddling Haytham’s hips, hopefully taking the strain off Haytham’s left arm and giving him more room to work.

Haytham looks bewildered for all but two seconds before he sighs in a jesting sort of resignation. “Honestly.”

“Would this not be easier?” Connor asks seriously, looking at Haytham and shifting slightly until he is comfortable.

Haytham laughs softly, his hand catching on Connor’s hip. “You,” he says while he moves his hand and traces Connor’s entrance with a slick finger, causing Connor’s breath to hitch in his throat, “are considerate to a fault.”

“Only because you make it easy,” Connor gasps, only half-focused on what he is saying, most of his attention drawn to the foreign feeling of Haytham’s finger inside of him. This is not so unpleasant as he had imagined; odd and slightly uncomfortable, but he is slowly getting used to it, and once the initial discomfort passes, it is pleasurable in its own way.

Haytham is watching him closely, judging his reaction before he carefully inserts a second finger, smiling at Connor audible keen. “I’ll make sure to remedy that, then,” he says and stops talking after that, as if he cannot divide his focus between Connor and speaking. Connor is still not used to having so much of his father’s attention on him; he squirms in Haytham’s lap, whining softly as the movement rubs his and Haytham’s erections together.

At least Haytham curses at the stimulation, too. “Keep still,” he orders even as he crooks his fingers and Connor has to grab hold of his shoulders to keep his balance. “You’re trying my patience.”

“You have been trying mine for the past—” Connor starts but is cut off by Haytham choosing that exact moment to add a third finger to the two already inside of Connor, only giving him a moment to get used to the feeling before he starts moving them, thrusting in and out of Connor unhurriedly but with purpose, his other hand wrapped around Connor’s cock, stroking him with a maddeningly light grip that brings stimulation but no relief. Connor is caught in between the two sensations, his breathing growing shorter with every stroke of his father’s hand.

He is panting by the time Haytham finally removes his fingers, dazed with the lack of oxygen, and needs a few moments to realise Haytham has lined himself up and is looking at him, waiting for a signal that he still wants this.

Because words will not come to him, he settles for cupping Haytham’s cheek, nodding. There is a tenderness in Haytham’s eyes and in the way he touches him that Connor has not experienced before and it makes him self-conscious. Still, despite being overwhelmed by Haytham’s affection and the entire situation, he keeps his eyes locked on Haytham’s for as long as he can, though he cannot but close them once Haytham actually starts pressing into him. Objectively, Connor knew he would be larger than his fingers, but actually feeling the difference is another matter. It is not exactly painful, as Haytham prepared him well, but it is uncomfortable, and it frustrates Connor that he needs time to adjust.

His frustration must show on his face, because Haytham rubs his lower back, likely in an attempt to soothe his discomfort. “Calm down,” he says. “Take your time.”

Connor takes a few slow breaths and experimentally lifts himself an inch. When he drop back down onto Haytham’s lap without much resistance, he nods. Haytham nods in returns and meets Connor’s thrusts when he starts moving, pulling him down for a deep kiss. The change in position wrings a moan from Connor’s throat, and another one after that, and he does not even attempt to quiet himself, not when there is no one in the manor but the two of them and not when Haytham’s eyes darken with desire at the sound.

As soon as the initial discomfort fades completely and pleasure starts to take over, Connor has a hard time remembering why he used to be so nervous for this. This feels right, like it was always supposed to be this way. A voice in the back of his head reminds him that this is his father, underneath him, but he is not bothered by the fact; he never has been, and fails to see why it should suddenly unsettle him now, when he feels wonderful. Moreover, judging by the look on his face, _Haytham_ feels wonderful, and that settles it.

He smiles to himself when he notices how out of breath Haytham is, staring up at him in something akin to wonderment. He touches his life mate’s face, tracing light fingertips down his cheek, and leans in to kiss him. Haytham wraps an arm around him to hold him close while he takes a hold of Connor’s by now leaking erection with his other hand.

Between the kiss, Haytham moving inside of him, and Haytham’s hand around his cock, Connor know he will not last long, but he surrenders himself to it and lets his climax wash over him. He feels overpowered by the sensation, but he keeps up a steady pace so that Haytham can find his release, too, and only lets up after Haytham groans his name and tenses beneath him.

After taking a few moments to recollect himself, Haytham pulls out carefully and pushes at Connor’s hips until they’re side by side on the bed. Connor takes his mouth in a lingering kiss before he can go anywhere and Haytham indulges him, even cupping his jaw to keep him in place.

Once they part, they settle down in silence, and Connor feels exhausted, but in an oddly good way. He turns onto his side and studies his name on Haytham’s wrist in the semi-dark of the approaching twilight, tracing the letters with his fingers. He can feel Haytham watching him, but his father says nothing to stop him, even takes Connor’s left hand to look at his own name. Connor hums softly at the light brush of Haytham’s fingers against his wrist and settles against Haytham’s shoulder, entwining his hand with Haytham’s while he waits for Haytham to finish his examination.

“The bedding is soaked, you realise,” Haytham says after a few moments of comfortable silence, lowering Connor’s hand onto his chest and pointedly pinching a wisp of Connor’s hair between his fingers so that some of the excess water seeps out. “We’ll regret not drying properly, come morning.”

“Father,” Connor says, yawning, shifting onto his other side to get comfortable and pulling Haytham against him by his arm, “shut up and sleep.”

He can _hear_ Haytham’s eye-roll in his huff and feels him move away. A moment later, his father is cleaning him up with a piece of cloth—Connor’s shirt, _again_ , judging by the texture. Connor lets him, secretly revelling in the tender care, and waits for him to drop the cloth and wrap his arm back around his waist. He does, and settles against Connor’s back, pulling the blanket over them both. Connor smiles to himself and holds onto Haytham’s arm, allowing his eyes to close. If Haytham says anything further, Connor is asleep before he can hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wheeeew, we're almost at the end! I just couldn't give it a sad ending without having to cloister myself off out of regret for the next month, haha. The next chapter is more of an epilogue-ish chapter than an actual chapter, so I'll upload that tomorrow!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the epilogue thingemy, actually on time for a change :') I hope you enjoy and thank you so much for having stuck around until the very end! <3

Connor is curled up against him when he wakes.

It was an odd sensation, at first, to wake up with someone in his arms when he’s woken up alone for most of his life, with the brief exception of the journey back from Martinique, but over the course of the past few days, he’s gotten used to it quickly, and he actually feels fairly comfortable with Connor this close to him—even if the boy is practically crushing his arm.

He stares up at the ceiling in thought, listening to Connor’s even breaths. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he feels like he should be more concerned about how at ease he is, at the lack of remorse over their activities from the night before, but, honestly, he can’t find it in himself to care. He’s aware he had his reservations about this part of their relationship in particular when Connor first pressed the issue on the Aquila, four years ago, but it’s been a long time since that day. He’s had plenty of opportunity to prioritise and he decided, even long before going back to New York, that he would stick by the promise he made himself on the Aquila: everything would depend on Connor. If Connor ever did come back to talk to him, Haytham would be fine with whatever relationship Connor wanted to pursue. If Connor just wanted him near, Haytham wouldn’t complain; if Connor wanted more than that, Haytham would be fine with that, as well.

Still, his mind tries to convince him to feel like a line has been crossed, but, in all honesty, he crossed it in his thoughts a long time ago, and he couldn’t possibly have fought this if he’d tried. If this between them is wrong, despite the names on their wrists, if he is to face some sort of reckoning for it, he’ll welcome it when the time comes. Until that, he’ll do what feels right—because it did. His mind can try and play tricks on him all it likes, but he knows it felt right.

Turning his head, he allows himself a few moments to watch the way the morning sun plays on Connor’s skin before he lifts his eyes to watch Connor’s face. His sleep is more restless than it was aboard the Aquila four years ago, his face set into a frown. Haytham thinks that may be something he will need to address in the near future.

For now, he puts his lips to Connor’s shoulder, trusting that the boy’s Assassin instincts will make him wake from the touch alone. They do; Connor is tense for the few seconds after waking as if he’s forgotten where he is and who he’s with, but Haytham waits patiently, trailing his hand up and down Connor’s arm until the boy becomes aware of his surroundings and relaxes into the touch. Haytham doesn’t question him. He remembers a time, after he had just returned from France, when he spent the first few minutes of every day organising his thoughts just so that he would know who he could expect to encounter. (This after he had referred to Charles as Holden during a meeting, much to the confusion of most of the inner circle.)

Once Connor has relaxed, he’s quick to turn around, leaning up on his elbow so that Haytham can take back his arm. He winces as the feeling in it returns, along with the pins and needles that go with it. He’s glad enough it isn’t his left arm the boy commandeered for most of the night.

Connor notices and smiles sheepishly. “Sorry,” he says, reaching out to rub the irking feeling away. Haytham lets him, perhaps a bit longer than absolutely necessary, but even when he’s finished, Connor leaves his hands on Haytham’s arm. When he smiles, Haytham’s eyes are instantly drawn to his mouth, so it’s a good thing, really, that it was apparently the boy’s intention all along to kiss him.

“Good morning, father,” he says belatedly when they part, slightly out of breath.

Haytham kisses him again, just because he can, or perhaps to remind himself that he can. He’s not quite sure which. When they part this time, Haytham licks his lips, as if to savour the taste of Connor’s kiss, but, really, he only does it for the horribly distracted look that appears on Connor’s face as the boy’s eyes follow the movement. He thinks Connor isn’t aware of the way he’s staring at his father’s lips, because he can pinpoint the second the realisation hits—the tips of Connor’s ears flush scarlet, even if the rest of his complexion doesn’t betray any sign of embarrassment.

He waits until Connor has lifted his eyes back to his. “Good morning to you, too,” he says dryly, taking quiet delight in the return of Connor’s awkward smile, and knows, there and then, that he loves this boy. He doesn’t care why or how, just basks in the fact that he does. He has no illusions this will be smooth sailing; he knows they will argue or worse, if their tempers get the best of them. He knows there will be days Connor will retreat into the woods surrounding the property, and there will be days where Haytham will lock himself into one of the rooms just because he’s fed up with the boy’s idealism. But seeing Connor smile fills him with such warmth that it doesn’t matter. They can fight ten, twenty, a hundred times from this moment onwards, but even one smile Connor grants him will make up for a lifetime of arguments.

Connor shifts closer to him. “You seem better this morning,” he comments, folding his arms on Haytham’s chest and looking up at him.

Haytham knows what he means, but he can’t help himself. Most of his conversations with Connor up until now have involved baiting the boy in some way, and he finds the habit hard to shake off. “I wasn’t aware I was ill. Not yet, at any rate, though, I can’t make any promises for the next few days. You did drag me out in the rain.”

Connor sighs but doesn’t lecture him on being serious. “I meant you look better rested,” he says instead, putting his finger on the corner of Haytham’s eye. “More at ease.”

“Well,” Haytham says even as he turns his head to nip gently at Connor’s wrist, “I’ll admit that the bed wasn’t as uncomfortable as I expected.”

Though a smile plays around his lips, Connor shakes his head and sits up. “There is that to be grateful for, at least.” He missed an opportunity here, Haytham realises, but he can’t say he regrets seeing it go. He knows there are plenty of things they still need to discuss, issues they need to resolve, but he feels only barely awake and warm under the covers, and he would much rather have such a conversation when he knows he can concentrate and explain properly.

So he doesn’t try to get back into the moment. Instead, he follows Connor’s example and sits up, letting the sun warm his shoulders. “Why don’t you do me a favour and fetch me a cup of tea?” he tells Connor even as he looks around the room in search of his shirt.

Connor quirks an eyebrow. “Why can’t you fetch it yourself? I’ve seen you walk, father, I know you’re able.”

“And I’ve seen you make yourself comfortable, so you can’t be too sore to get out of bed,” Haytham returns, finally locating his shirt, miraculously dry, under the bed and pulling it on. When he looks back at Connor, the boy has crossed his arms and is looking at him with an expression on his face that tells Haytham his son is decidedly unimpressed with him. He sighs and admits defeat, not looking to get into an argument this early in the day.

“Oh, fine,” he says and leans over to coax Connor into a kiss. It takes him a few seconds, but Connor melts under his touch and kisses him back. “Will you _please_ make me a cup of tea? I’ll make it worth your while when you return.”

Connor keeps looking at him for a few heartbeats more, arms still crossed, before sighing and untangling himself. “That’s not going to work every time,” he warns Haytham, but his eyes betray that it might work for a good few times yet, and he does get up without further fuss, pausing on the threshold to pick up and pull on his breeches. Haytham doesn’t try to hide the way he watches Connor’s movements, smirking suggestively when Connor catches his eye upon walking onto the landing proper. Connor huffs, but he’s smiling, and his gait is light as he walks to the stairs and descends them.

Left alone in the bedroom that has to have been Connor’s even before Davenport’s death, Haytham gets up and stretches his tired muscles, casting a look about for his breeches. He locates them just outside the door, close to Connor’s moccasins. He doesn’t bother with his waistcoat or coat, knowing the heavy fabric of the two will need more time to dry than just one night, but he does pull on his boots.

One of the floorboards creaks as he moves, causing him to pause. This house will take time getting used to, if only because of its size, but also because of its history. This was the home of Achilles Davenport for years, the home of the one who shaped his son into the man he is today—the man who has to have been more of a father figure to Connor than Haytham could ever achieve to be. He doesn’t know how long Davenport has been dead, but he can’t imagine Connor has spent much time in the house since then, in between chasing after Charles and then tracking Haytham down. Haytham will need to find his place, here, in between the history and the memories.

He starts by making a round through the bedroom, noting the little touches that make the room _Connor’s_ —the hand axes on the wall above the fireplace, adorned with the feathers that his tribe would use; the mementos on the dresser by the window.

He finds Ziio’s necklace, here, and he picks it up carefully, sure that the long years since her passing would have made the string and beads fragile, but it holds surprisingly well in his hand. He looks at the necklace, remembers the way it looked on her, the way it would shift when she turned her head to look at him, and apologises. She must have known, must have seen his name on Connor’s wrist. He can only imagine the anguish that discovery must have caused her and though he knows it’s hardly his fault, he finds himself apologising for it, for not being strong enough to resist, and because he wouldn’t change a thing about it if he could go back in time. He would change the way he approached the entire Washington matter, yes, would try to broker a truce between Charles and Connor, but he knows he would give in to Connor time and time again, no matter how often he would have to do things over. He apologises for that most of all.

The whistle of the kettle downstairs makes him put down the necklace and leave the dresser alone. Instead, he walks over to the window and opens it, taking a deep breath of late autumn air, leaning his hands on the windowsill. From here, he can see the pathway leading up to the manor, surrounded by yellowing trees. Despite the hour and despite the cold, people are walking about, doing chores or simply enjoying the day, greeting each other as they pass. As he watches a fisherman tip his hat to a woman, he realises that this is Connor’s home, the place he chose to return to when he could be anywhere in the colonies, and he, Haytham, has been invited to it, to share in it, be part of it. Connor entrusts this to him.

It’s more humbling than it has right to be.

A steaming cup of tea is set down on the windowsill next to his hand. He hasn’t heard Connor approach, but he isn’t startled by his sudden presence at his side, which, if he didn’t realise how he felt about the boy already, would be so very telling. He straightens and nods his gratitude, picking up the cup and warming his hands.

“Father?” Connor questions softly, setting his hand against the framework of the window so he can lean closer and look Haytham in the eye. As he does, Haytham catches sight of his name on a dark-skinned wrist and takes a sip of his tea so he has an explanation for the warm feeling in his chest aside from the most obvious one. Seeing his name on Connor’s wrist still fills him with a sense of wonderment, despite having spent minutes tracing it and committing it to memory the night before. Before yesterday, he only caught a glimpse of it when Connor changed into his captain’s uniform on the Aquila, but it always was too far off to take proper notice. Seeing it yesterday instilled the sense that this is actually real, not just a figment of his imagination, in his mind, but he suspects it will be a long time yet before he learns to reconcile the fact that Connor’s name on his wrist means that his name is on Connor’s wrist, as well, and has been for as long as Connor is alive.

“I suppose I can see why you love it so,” he says absently, tearing his eyes away and nodding towards the window.

Connor shifts, removing his hand from the window so he can cross his arms. “It’s home,” he says simply and Haytham nods at that, sipping his tea. He watches a dark-skinned woman push a perambulator towards the bridge across the river in the distance.

“Father?” Connor says suddenly.

He glances at the boy next to him. “What is it?”

Connor looks at him and Haytham knows instantly that Connor wants to make a start on resolving the issues that they shelved, in New York. He doesn’t know how many they are, but he’s sure Connor’s kept count; he’s also sure that Connor will make sure they speak of every single one of them. He braces himself.

“That day at Fort George,” Connor says, hand twitching against his arm, and Haytham smiles wryly when he realises they have the exact same tells. “Did you intend to die?”

The question is not what he expected. He expected an interrogation about his reasons for engaging Connor in combat in the first place, as he was the one to land the first blow and the one to insist on the fight where Connor tried to talk him out of it. But that’s not Connor’s main concern, apparently, which, all things considered, he should have known. The last time Connor looked after his own needs was when he cornered Haytham on the Aquila.

He doesn’t quite know how to answer that question, to explain why. All of his explanations sound too flowery. So he sighs and puts his cup down on the windowsill and simply says, “Yes.”

Connor nods as if he expected that, though his hand still curls in on itself as if it’s a truth he doesn’t like hearing. He averts his gaze to the window. “You could have helped Lee.”

Haytham accepts that statement with a nod. “I could have.”

Still looking at the window, Connor says, “Instead, you disappeared.” He looks back at Haytham. “Why?”

And there it is. The why. There are so many possible answers to that, all of them interconnected and all of them influencing every decision he made that day. He can’t possibly explain all of them to Connor, even now that he has the time, so he goes with the one that makes the most sense.

“Before your _brilliant_ plan of bombing Fort George,” he says, because he still doesn’t understand how Connor could ever think that was a good idea, “Charles and I had an argument over my... loyalties. Concerning you. He accused me of doubting our cause. It was his agitation talking, I’m sure, he would never have said it otherwise, but he was right. My focus had not been on the Templar ideal for a long time. The Order deserved better than that. So after you tore off after him, I thought I would let him try. He had the conviction I lacked, the means to carry it out. Perhaps he would bring the Order to its deserved greatness where I could not. Perhaps I thought he could outrun you.”

He never believed that last one; he always knew Connor would catch up to Charles one day. But all the rest is true, in some way, even if it wasn’t his main reason for leaving the city the way he did. He sighs and adds, “But most of all, I feared that if I stayed, this... _thing_ ,” he gestures between himself and Connor, “would force me to aid you. I refused to do so. Despite of it all, Charles was still my friend. So I thought it better to leave.”

When he looks at Connor, the boy’s lips are set in a tight line as if he’s physically holding himself back from saying something. Haytham doesn’t ask, waits; after a while, Connor’s posture relaxes and his hand unfolds.

“Where did you go?”

“Virginia,” Haytham answers, picking up his cup now that he suspects the actual difficult questions are over and done with. For now, at least. “Charles had to believe I died in the attack or he would look for me, so I needed to leave the city. I used to have a plot of land there, next to Charles. I knew he wouldn’t go back there, not with you hot at his heels.”

Connor nods at that, working his jaw like he’s trying out words in his mouth before he speaks them. “They buried him in Philadelphia.”

“I’m aware,” Haytham says slowly, watching Connor to gauge where he’s going with this. “I was at his funeral.”

Connor is silent for a long while, studiously avoiding Haytham’s gaze, until Haytham thinks that might be all as far as this conversation is concerned, but then Connor releases a slow breath and actually turns towards him.

“I’m not sorry for his death,” he says, holding Haytham’s gaze now. “But I am sorry that you lost your friend.”

It’s more than Haytham expected, honestly, from the man who never had anything good to say about Charles. He nods and breaks eye-contact, swirling his tea around in his cup. “Divided loyalties are a wretched thing,” he says; he’s not sure whether he’s talking to Connor or to himself. “I’d rather not experience it again.” He thinks he can see Connor nod to that, but since he’s not actually looking at him, he can’t be sure it’s not a trick of the light.

What he can be sure of is that Connor shifts his weight so that his arm brushes against Haytham’s. “We still have much to discuss,” he says, but the tone of his voice betrays that he’s merely throwing it out there. He doesn’t expect them to actually do it now.

“I’m aware,” Haytham says again, glancing at Connor and taking note of the smile that plays around Connor’s mouth—simple and content. When he catches Haytham’s eye, it grows wider and makes Haytham feel warm.

“For now, I’m glad you’re here,” Connor says, places that right in his hands to do with as he wishes. Having spent most of his professional and personal life coating his words in at least one subtext, he’s not sure how to handle Connor’s earnestness. He will learn, he’s certain of that, but not yet.

All he can do now is take a breath. “Would you believe me if I told you I’m glad to be here?”

That makes Connor smile even wider, chuckling softly with unguarded mirth. “Stranger things have happened. So yes, I would believe you.” From there, a comfortable silence descends on them, though Connor doesn’t let it last long. As someone passes by the front of the house and walks into the direction of the stables (likely to see to the horses, judging from the way Connor doesn’t even react to the man’s presence other than to follow him with his eyes) he says casually, “I should warn you, though, the homesteaders will flood you wish questions once they learn you are here to stay.”

Of course Connor would actually spend time with the people on the property. Well. He’s suffered worse, he supposes.

Still, he has to roll his eyes at that. One step at a time and all that. “I’ll be looking forward to that, then,” he says dryly and, oddly, it’s not a complete lie.

They watch the comings and goings of the Homestead in silence while Haytham sips his tea, shoulders touching ever so slightly. It will never be smooth sailing, not between them, but Haytham takes comfort in the warmth of Connor’s skin seeping into his shoulder. As long as they can have this, they’ll be just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! I just want to take this space to thank every single one of you who commented, gave kudos, bookmarked, subscribed, liked my posts on tumblr, or just simply read this story! I'm overwhelmed by the amount of people enjoying this - when I posted it, I could never have imagined I'd end up here. I can't say thank you enough, but I'm going to do it one last time - thank you so much for reading this story, enjoying it, leaving kudos or comments or bookmarking it. Thank you so so much, you all rock! Have a lovely day and until next time! <3


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